


Tied and Tangled

by NovemberMagpie



Category: EXO, Kpop - Fandom
Genre: Age gap (one of the parties being a minor about to turn eighteen), M/M, Swearing, improper treatment of an egg baby project
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-10-24 03:23:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 123,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10733127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NovemberMagpie/pseuds/NovemberMagpie
Summary: Chanyeol and Junmyeon are soul mates, tied by the red thread of fate. The only problem is that Chanyeol is a bumbling high schooler, and Junmyeon is a thirty-one year-old accountant who doesn't want anything to do with him. But people are tied together for a reason, and they're both about to find out why





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a careful re-uploading of Tied and Tangled, something I wrote way back in the day under sky_sail.
> 
> While I may come back to edit it in different ways (because HOLY SHIT it needs it), the most important change is one thing: Suho is now Junmyeon. I was a baby fic-writer back in the day and new to fandom. I apologize for my sins. Please forgive me.
> 
> Please do not re-up under any circumstances.

Chanyeol is asleep in class when it happens, drool dripping from the corner of his mouth and pooling on the Home Ec textbook he's using as a pillow. A sharp jolt from his hand jerks him awake, making him snort and flail and knock his and Baekhyun's egg baby off the desk.

  
Baekhyun barely manages to catch it before it can crack against the floor. It's secretly the fifth egg they've gone through since the project was assigned two days ago, their previous children meeting very graphic, splattered demises thanks to Chanyeol's goofy sense of coordination.

  
"I want a divorce," Baekhyun whisper-hisses, thankful that their teacher didn't see Chanyeol's display of horrible figurative parenting skills. "You may be the father of our child, but don't think that I won't leave you to keep him safe and get the A I deserve in life."

  
But, Chanyeol isn't paying attention to him. Chanyeol has his hand raised in front of his face, fingers splayed, and is looking at them with wide eyes that seem seconds away from popping out of his head. Because on his pinky, something is there that wasn’t a moment ago. Tied thread, shimmering, cherry bright.

  
Everything builds inside of him at a crescendo as he grasps the situation. Electric surprise and blooming elation and that heart-pounding realization that everything from this moment on is going to be different. He stands up from his chair so fast that it topples into the desk behind his, almost causing the partners sitting there to lose _their_ egg baby. Baekhyun puts on his best smile and meekly apologizes to them, cradling his egg in one hand and ineffectively trying to wrangle Chanyeol back to his seat with the other. 

  
"It's here!" Chanyeol exclaims, thrusting his pinky into the air to admire the way the light shines across the spans of the thread. It ties around his finger in a perfect little bow, then trails off to the side of the room before seemingly fading into thin air. Only he can see it, feel it, follow its tugging and the path it leads. He knows the entire class is looking at him, and he knows he must be grinning in that uncontrollable way that scares the underclassmen, but he doesn’t care. "Baek! Baek! _I have it_!"

  
Baekhyun mutters, "What you have is half a brain," as he scoots his chair away and tries to pretend like he has no affiliation with the maniac in class. Then he realizes just what Chanyeol means and gasps. His own chair is sent flying against the desk behind them as he stands. 

  
"What? No way! That's not—you’re—!” He grabs Chanyeol's hand, eyes straining to see the flash of red even though he knows he won't be able to. The taller boy laughs in a mixture of disbelief and joy. This is it. His _Akaito_. Soul mate. He almost can't understand the word; can't grasp the gravity of exactly what it means but feels the power of it nonetheless. 

Suddenly, Chanyeol's body goes stiff. He's still grinning like some Cheshire Cat, but Baekhyun knows a motionless Chanyeol is an unwell Chanyeol.

  
"You okay?" Baekhyun timidly asks.

  
"I'm so happy. I think I'm going to puke."

  
He does, after Baekhyun hustles him out of the classroom, down the hall, and into the bathroom. Most people grow out of the whole puking-when-over-excited phase of their childhood. Not him. Chanyeol laughs into the toilet bowl when he's finished, not even caring about the disgusting state of the stall. 

  
"I have to go find him. Or her," Chanyeol says, his voice echoing around the ceramic. There’s a chance it might be a girl, but Chanyeol’s been pretty into guys ever since he made out with Kim Jongin at a party his freshman year. Everyone knows Jongin is a game-changer.

  
"Now?"

  
"Now."

  
"But...school," Baekhyun lamely says. There's still two periods left before the final bell.

  
Chanyeol sits up and looks at his pinky, watches the thread that shifts with his every movement. His breathing has gone back to normal but he can still feel his heart thudding against his chest, practically nudging him forward. The _Akaito_ ties to both mates at the same time, meaning the future love of his life must be looking down at his now, too, bearing the same kind of wonder and excitement. Why should he waste another moment? He can't wait to meet whoever is at the other end, and imagines they must feel the same way.  

☓

Junmyeon breaks into a cold sweat the moment it happens. He feels acid at the back of his throat and his tie is suddenly much too tight and has his cubicle always been this small? With shaky hands he pushes his chair away from his desk and stands, practically jogging out his cubicle and into his floor’s community bathroom. 

  
Luckily no one else is in there to see him stumble to the paper towels, ripping off a square and dabbing at the sweat on his neck and forehead. That string around his pinky tugs insistently. It's begun to cut off the circulation to his finger, like it knew how resilient Junmyeon would be to its presence and wanted to make its point clear. 

  
"No," Junmyeon says to the thread, even though he knows that's not how it works. "Go away."

  
The thread appears to give no shits and continues to turn his pinky an ugly shade of purple.

  
This can't be happening. It just can't. There's a list of reasons why. 

  
There's still two boxes of Junmyeon’s ex boyfriend's things at his apartment; things Jongdae apparently weighed to be less important than the awkward face-to-face that would have to happen if he picked them up. He left three weeks ago.

  
Yesterday, Junmyeon was passed over for a big promotion at his accounting firm. The higher ups told him it was because he was too inexperienced, which was just their own way of saying that the people on the top floor refused to take orders from someone as young as him. It didn't matter that he was perfect for the job, or that he'd practically given up pieces of his soul for the past five years to become one of the most valuable employees at the company. 

  
And his life, God, his life. A mess. There was a hole in his apartment’s wall from accidentally bashing his chair into it, holes in his socks from being too busy and exhausted to properly go shopping, and a lovely new hole in his chest from being abandoned by yet another lover.

  
No, no no no. He presses his face into the palms of his hands, willing his breathing to even out so he can calm down and get back to work. Apparently he wasn't experienced enough for the promotion, but his bosses have no problems loading him with their complicated case loads so they can spend more time golfing and vacationing and car shopping. 

  
By the time Junmyeon makes it back to his cubicle, the thread is loosening, if only slightly. 

  
His coworker, and for all intents and purposes, best friend, sticks his head over the wall that separates their cubicles. His eyes are wide and pretty, with less-than-pretty bags beneath them that have been there for the past two years.

  
“You okay?”

  
Junmyeon nods, clammy beneath his dress shirt. “Yeah, Minseok.”

  
His friend doesn’t look like he believes him, but nods and lowers himself out of sight.

  
Junmyeon can feel his whole heart thudding in his pinky as blood rushes to the veins. It’s too distracting. He can't push it to the side of his thoughts and focus on something else, something he usually has a talent for. All he can do is stare at the EXCEL form on his computer screen and hope that whoever he's tied to will make a point of not seeking him out. 

  
He needs time. He _needs_ a way out of this. 

  
He needs to finish this form before tomorrow.

☓

If Chanyeol focuses, he can make the thread thicken, stretch farther. He can get a general sense of direction to head in, even though hopping from bus to bus to follow it has proven more difficult than he thought. 

  
His wallet is stuffed with money from his part-time job at the guitar store by his school, along with the “borrowed” credit card Mr. and Mrs. Byun gave to Baekhyun to use in case of emergencies. Chanyeol’s own parents had laughed when he suggested they gift him with something similar. Then they went on to say how irresponsible or impulsive or _blah blah blah_ he was, but by that point he wasn’t paying attention.

  
In his lifetime, Chanyeol has seen innumerable people staring at their pinkies, oblivious to the rest of the world as they follow that invisible thread. It happens to everyone, sooner or later. He just didn’t think it would happen to him when he was seventeen. There’s always two dozen or so kids in his district that find their _Akaito_ during high school, and for a smaller handful it happens even sooner. But on the other side of the spectrum, some people are well into adulthood—their fifties, sixties, seventies, _eighties_ —before it happens. 

  
Chanyeol smirks, knowing that talent or looks or smarts has nothing to do with it but feeling prideful anyway. As he’s staring, the string suddenly shifts into a completely different direction. Chanyeol yelps and grabs the hanging cord by his seat to tell the bus driver to stop. He almost falls off the bus’ stairs before making it to the sidewalk, but rights himself and takes in the unfamiliar street.

  
Looking at the map on his phone, Chanyeol realizes just how far he’s traveled these past couple hours. He’s on the other side of the city, a good hour’s ride on the metro away from home. 

This wasn’t exactly what he thought chasing down his soul mate would be like. Stained, smelly seats, a rumbling stomach, and a bus system that seems to go everywhere but where he needs to be. His parents will be mad that he won’t be home for dinner. He’s blowing tons of money on public transit. The homework that he’s done such a good job of putting off is being put off again—though that's not something he's _too_ worried about.

  
But Chanyeol is stubborn. It’s what makes him so good at playing guitar, and what made him the youngest instructor at the store he works at. He stuffs his hands into his pockets, the thread still shining through, and decides to follow it a couple blocks before grabbing the next bus. The excitement is thrumming lower in his veins, but it’s still there as his determination takes over.

  
An hour later, another two buses hopped, Chanyeol’s right hand flies out of his pocket with the force of the red thread. In moments he’s back on the sidewalk and sprinting as his heart beats between his ears. The street is filled with big, shiny buildings that try and out-tower each other. They all have important block lettering above their entrances, banks and corporations and offices with all their lights on.

  
It’s around six, and there is a flood of people emerging from the buildings, taking up the entirety of the sidewalk. Chanyeol is lost in a flurry of suits, high heels, and briefcases, barely able to see the thread and having to follow the direction of its tugging instead. He constantly bumps into strangers, turning to apologize and ending up whacking another person with his backpack.

The thread leads him up to a building that says LACHOWSKI, MILLER & CO. above its  swinging front doors. He pushes into the building without hesitation, taking in the marble floors and sweeping ceiling of the lobby. _Fancy_. 

  
Does his _Akaito_ have a job here? Is he a college intern, or a desk jockey, or maybe even a janitor? Chanyeol doesn’t care much, whatever it may be. His sneakers squeak against the floor as he makes a beeline for the elevators and shoves himself into one just before it closes. With some finagling of the buttons and pissing off more than a couple employees who just wanted to go down to the lobby and _go home_ , Chanyeol finally finds the right floor and launches himself out of the elevator. 

  
There’s cubicles. Cubicles as far as the eye can see. Most of the room seems to be cleared out, only a couple men and women loiter around, gathering their things for the end of the day. Chanyeol doesn’t bother to peer into the cubicles as he fervently passes, his eyes trained on that streak of red, head lowered, until he slams face first into a wall. 

  
Junmyeon looks up from his computer, his whole cubicle shaking as the sound of something heavy thuds against the ground a couple feet away, followed by a low, “Ow?”

  
The string around his pinky is going spastic. It made typing difficult about fifteen minutes ago, but it’s now downright impossible for him to even keep his left hand on the keyboard. 

  
No. No, it can’t be. The thread _just_ appeared today. It’s not so unusual for such a quick meeting, but Junmyeon had been desperately hoping that he’d have more time before this happened. He seriously considers climbing over the opposite end of his cubicle to make a quick getaway instead of having to face whoever is on the other side of that wall.

  
There’s a sound of shuffling, and as Junmyeon sits frozen in his seat, a head pops through the opening, into his space. 

  
It’s too much for Junmyeon to soak in at once, the pieces taking forever to place themselves. It’s a boy. A boy on his hands and knees. A boy on his hands and knees with a baseball hat turned backwards on his head, blood gushing down his nose and smeared across his lips. And he’s grinning, grinning in some kind of delirious way that makes Junmyeon question his mental stability.

  
“Hi!” the boy cheerfully exclaims as blood drips from his chin to the carpet. He appears oblivious to it as he looks at his hand, his eyes following the thread until his gaze lands on Junmyeon's pinky. The boy has really big eyes, and really big ears that stick out at an angle that could be considered elfish. He’s practically a kid. And Junmyeon is most definitely not a kid.

  
“I’m Park Chanyeol.” Chanyeol stands with a grunt, taking up most of the space in Junmyeon’s cubicle with his gangly arms and legs. After some silence, he continues, “This is the part where you tell me your name.”

  
DON’T DO IT his brain screams but a watery sounding “Jun…myeon,” comes out of his mouth. 

  
“Junmyeon, Juun, Myeoon,” Chanyeol says, looking pleased. Junmyeon wants to tell the kid that there’s still blood trickling from his nose and it looks like the cartilage in his bridge might be broken, but all he can manage is shakily pointing his finger at his own nose. 

  
Chanyeol dumbly blinks then touches his nose, his fingers coming away sticky and wet. 

  
“Well shit,” he says, his grin growing, if possible. “Do you have a tissue?”

  
Junmyeon wordlessly hands him a box of them by his keyboard, along with some wet wipes he keeps in a top drawer. He feels incredibly out of place, sitting in the same chair he does every day, as Chanyeol hops up to sit on his desk and makes himself at home. The kid begins to clean himself up, continuously glancing at Junmyeon with sparkly eyes. 

  
“So Junmyeon,” Chanyeol says, his voice coming out nasally from the way he’s pinched his nostrils with a tissue to stopper the bleeding. “Tell me everything about yourself.”

  
Just then, Minseok walks up to Junmyeon's cubicle, his face buried in a manilla folder. “I’m about to head out, Junmyeon. Make sure you don’t stay here too late again. I told—” Minseok lowers the folder and comes to an abrupt stop, taking in Chanyeol and all his bloody glory. “Hello?”

  
“Hi,” the boy chirps, then introduces himself. “I’d shake your hand but it’s all bloody.”

  
“Minseok. Nice to meet you,” Minseok slowly says, raising an eyebrow at Junmyeon. The presence of his friend makes Junmyeon feel like his feet are finally back on the ground. He straightens in his chair, ready to grab control of the situation. “How do you two, uh, know each other?”

  
“He’s a possible intern from the local university,” Junmyeon says, pleased with how smooth the lie comes out, “I forgot I was supposed to interview him today for the boss.”

Minseok totally doesn’t believe him, as is plainly written across his expression, but his and Junmyeon’s friendship is built on the steady companionship of not talking about feelings and never pressing for further details when one of them backs down.

  
The glimmer flickers in Chanyeol’s expression as he starts to look confused. He holds up his right hand, the thread tugging at Junmyeon’s with the movement, and begins to say, “Junmyeon and I just met because we’re _Ak_ —”

  
“ _Ak-_ tually about to start the interview. So I’ll see you later, Minseok. Get home safe,” Junmyeon interrupts. Minseok takes his cue, says goodbye, and leaves, shuffling around in the next cubicle over as he puts his things away for the day. Chanyeol opens his mouth to say something, but obediently clamps it shut when Junmyeon shushes him, much to Junmyeon’s surprise.

  
When Minseok is gone, Junmyeon sighs and puts his face in his hands for the umpteenth time today. 

  
“How old are you?” he asks, muffled through his hands.

  
“I’m a senior,” Chanyeol replies. His voice is surprisingly low and resonating for someone with such a baby-face. 

  
Junmyeon sighs, longer this time. _A senior_. He can’t even remember being a senior at college. There’s a word for how long it’s been since then—a goddamn decade.

  
“What school?”

  
“Quincy High.”

  
Junmyeon's blood runs cold as he rips his face away from his hands. “High as in _high school_?”

  
Something in the older man’s expression must be pretty intimidating because Chanyeol slightly leans back, his backpack knocking over a cup of pencils on the desk. 

  
“Yeah, Quincy High School. I graduate this spring.”

  
Junmyeon wants to grab one of the pencils and stab his eyes out. He thought it couldn’t get worse. He was wrong. “This can’t be happening to me.”

  
“Is that a problem? I mean, I get that you’re old, but the _Akaito_ —”

  
Junmyeon bristles. “I’m not _that_ old.”

  
“Okay.” Chanyeol nods, gaining traction again, “So on a scale of kind of old to super old, just how old are you?”

  
“Too old for you.”

  
Chanyeol rolls his eyes. “Age?”

  
“I’m thirty-one.”

  
Chanyeol stops mid eye-roll and barks out laughter. If it wasn’t past six o’clock, Junmyeon would have been embarrassed, but his floor is empty and quiet. 

  
“So you’re _super old_.”

  
“Watch it, kid—” Junmyeon begins to forget he’s mortified as annoyance creeps up his spine.

  
“You’re only,” Chanyeol pauses and counts something out on his fingers. Big hands, Junmyeon notices, then instantly hates himself all the more. “Fourteen, well, thirteen years older than me.”

  
“I’m going to be sick to my stomach.”

  
“I did that today too!” 

  
Junmyeon doesn’t think he’s going to finish that spreadsheet tonight. He begins packing his things up, shoving as many folders as he can into his briefcase, as Chanyeol talks and talks and talks. Junmyeon doesn’t catch a lot of it—the kid keeps on mentioning someone named Baekhyun and mentions their marriage and some egg lovechild—because all he’s worried about at this point is getting Chanyeol out of his building and sending him back to whatever kiddie farm he came from. 

  
By the time they get downstairs and outside, the autumn sun is low in the sky, making the buildings cast shadows that envelop the entire street. The crowd Chanyeol bumbled through earlier has considerably thinned. 

  
“Okay kid,” Junmyeon says, turning to Chanyeol. He has to look up, the stupid seventeen year-old towering like some baby giant. “I have to go home now.”

  
“Is your place around here?”

  
Junmyeon ignores that question. The last thing he wants to do is tell the _high schooler_ where his apartment is. There’s always been threaded pairs happening between minors and adults, but the law still stands, no matter if you’re _Akaito_. Junmyeon does not feel like being on the eight o’clock news for this. 

  
“How far away do you live? I’ll give you the money for a cab.” Junmyeon pulls out his wallet, trying not to feel self-conscious as Chanyeol looks down and sees the forest of green living between the leather.

  
“That would be a lot of money to waste on a cab, I’m not from around here. Are you? Do you live nearby?”

  
“I’m sure it’ll be fine. What district are you in?” Chanyeol tells him and Junmyeon chokes on his own spit. “That’s on the other side of the city!”

  
“You think I don’t know that?” Chanyeol says, his voice bearing the first hint of frustration. “Getting here and finding you, it raided me a whole week of savings. I’ve spent so much time sitting on buses today that I still haven’t gotten all the feeling back in my ass.”

  
Junmyeon stares at Chanyeol, his mouth slightly hanging open. The kid rode buses all the way here? Following that stupid thread? There’s still crusted blood on the ridges of his nostrils, and Junmyeon fights the impulse to take his handkerchief out of his pocket and hand it over.

  
Chanyeol determinedly grips the straps of his backpack. “I know that the nearest metro station is only a couple blocks away from here. I can ride that home, I don’t need your money.”

  
“Come on. It’s getting late and the metro isn’t exactly the safest place to be past the nine to five rush,” Junmyeon says, counting bills off in his mind as he takes them out of his wallet. “I’d feel a lot better if you just took what I’m offering you. So you can get home safely.”

  
“Because I’m your _Akaito._ ” Chanyeol says it so warmly, flecks of happiness shining through. The older man hates the way he relishes the word. It’s going to make putting him down so much harder.

  
“Because you’re a _kid_ ,” Junmyeon flatly replies, counting off the last bill then holding the cluster of cash to Chanyeol. The younger man eyes it, sniffs in a way that is decidedly unattractive, then accepts the money. With his free hand, he digs into his pocket and pulls out a cell phone. 

  
“Fine. I’ll take it. But I want your number to trade.”

  
“I’m not giving you my number.”

  
“Why not?” Chanyeol looks up with a frown, and it surprises Junmyeon how much he doesn’t like that look on his face.

  
Junmyeon braces himself. “Look, I get that you’re young and you must be pretty excited about this whole thing, and you seem like a really nice boy so I hate to break it this way, but I’m not interested in having any kind of relationship with you.”

  
Does Not Compute flashes across Chanyeol’s face. “What do you mean?”

  
“I mean that it doesn’t matter if we’re tied together, or if you had this grand idea of what it was going to be like when that thread showed up on your pinky, but I’m opting out of the whole soul mate thing." 

  
“You…can’t do that?”

  
“I can. I am. People do it all the time, kid.” Junmyeon was starting to feel nervous, like if he didn’t shuffle this boy off and away, he was going to do something stupid like give him some kind of hope. Better break his faith in the red thread in one swift motion. Save him the pain that Junmyeon himself had felt over and over and over again.

  
“But we’re _Akaito._ ” Chanyeol’s eyes are beginning to look vaguely puppy-like. 

  
Junmyeon straightens his shoulders like he does when he has to command leadership to the associates below him at the firm. “ _Akaito_ is not synonymous with _relationship._ ”

  
“Synony—what?”

  
“I’m sorry, Chanyeol, I really am. You need to go home. Maybe call me in ten years and we'll see if anything's different, but right now, this," Junmyeon gestures to the string shimmering between them, "can't happen."

  
Chanyeol is quiet for the first time since he smacked against Junmyeon's cubicle. He looks even younger now, shoulders drooping, the corners of his pink mouth tugged down as all of the bravado he had earlier slowly drains away. 

  
All those dramas Junmyeon watches to unwind himself at the end of long days have provided him with a good sense of the proper moment for a dramatic turn and walk-away. He does so now, allowing himself one last look at Chanyeol. It’s strange to think that boy is his soul mate, and he hates the part of himself that greedily takes comfort in the thought of someone existing that is perfect for him. Because he can’t have him. Chanyeol can’t see it now, but he’s saving him a world of heartbreak. 

  
"How am I supposed to call you ten years from now if I don't have your phone number?" Chanyeol asks the older man's retreating back.

  
"You seem resourceful. I'm sure you'll find a way."

  
Chanyeol is left standing alone at the crosswalk. Dumbfounded. He watches Junmyeon's retreating figure as disappointment sinks deep into his gut. This was not how it was supposed to go. Admittedly he pictured running in slow-motion to someone’s open arms, preferably in the middle of a field of flowers—what just happened was the opposite of that. 

  
But, he wouldn’t be Park Chanyeol if he didn’t know when to give up. 

  
He stuffs the money into his pocket, following the signs leading to the metro. The thread tugs against him, clearly just as confused, as the space between him and the man grows. Chanyeol gives it a good yank, hopes Junmyeon can feel it. 

  
“Old man,” he grumbles. 

☓

Chanyeol shows up the next day at school looking like he got in a fight, and lost. Sickly yellow and purple mottles his nose and cheekbones—swirls around his eyes like some sort of mask. Everyone is talking about it in the halls, and he basks in the attention. It helps that he’s a good head taller than most of his classmates, his head sticking out like some lighthouse signaling for people to look at him. 

  
“Did he punch you?” Baekhyun shrieks as soon as he sees Chanyeol. The shorter friend has taken to wearing a fanny pack this week, all for the safety of carrying their egg child, and it bounces against his hip as he jogs to where his friends have gathered by Chanyeol’s locker. Chanyeol grins, allowing Baekhyun to gingerly press his fingers against his face as Kyungsoo, Sehun, and Jongin watch on. 

  
“It all began yesterday, when I got on the first bus—” Chanyeol grandly begins. He’d rehearsed a story in the mirror after getting home last night, knowing he’d get to tell it a hundred times today. 

  
“He didn’t get punched. The idiot wasn’t paying attention when he was following the thread and bashed his face into a wall,” Sehun interrupts. Chanyeol’s eye twitches as Baekhyun groans. Not like he's all that surprised.

  
“He bled on the floor of the guy’s cubicle.” Kyunsoo winces.

  
“Hey, it’s _my_ story—”

  
“That we’ve all heard about five times and school hasn’t even started yet,” Jongin deadpans.

  
“A cubicle?” Baekhyun asks, “So he’s older?”

  
Chanyeol opens his mouth but Sehun says, “The guy’s thirty-one.”

  
“WHAT?”

  
“Thirty-one. Super adult. Was wearing a tie and he even had a briefcase,” Jongin says. Chanyeol tries to shove Jongin away from their little circle but gets elbowed in the stomach. As he’s doubled over, Kyungsoo pats his back and says, “The guy is on the other side of the city. It took Chanyeol five hours to get there but in the end he didn’t give him his number.”

  
“Dumbass doesn’t even know the guy’s surname,” Sehun chimes in, always a little too eager when he gets to make digs at the older boy. 

  
“So he…denied…you?” 

  
Chanyeol rights himself, pointing a warning finger at Baekhyun who’s looking at him a tad too sad for his liking. “Don’t you dare feel sorry for me,” Chanyeol says, moving his finger from face to face even though he knows his best friend is the only one who does. “I’m going back today, after my test in second period. I already got someone to cover my shift at the store after school.”

  
“I don’t know if that’s the best idea,” Kyungsoo says, fidgeting with the peeling spine of his calculus textbook. “He made it pretty clear that he didn’t want to see you again.”

  
“We’re _tied_! I mean, we’re obviously meant to be together, right?”

  
The group reluctantly mumbles their agreement. As fun as it is to make fun of him, everything they’d been taught about the red thread at this point makes Chanyeol’s story seem impossible. What kind of person would deny themselves of their soul mate? The only stories they’d heard about the tie not working out was—

  
“But what if he’s crazy?” Baekhyun carefully asks. “What if he’s done something bad and that’s why he turned you away?”

  
“He.” Chanyeol pauses, a strange look in his eye as his expression softens. “He’s not crazy. He seems nice. I mean, he was really flustered yesterday and I _did_ literally burst into his office. So maybe if I see him again, he’ll be a little more level. Loose.”

  
The five of them become quiet, unsure. They’d only heard and observed about the _Akaito_ before. None of them knew how it really worked. 

  
“Besides,” Chanyeol breaks the moment and puffs out his chest, “I’m _fucking hot_. Who wouldn’t want a piece of this?”

  
Jongin elbows him in the stomach again, going for another jab before Kyungsoo and Sehun pull him away just as the first warning bell rings. They wave goodbye and head off as Baekhyun patiently waits for Chanyeol to catch his breath.

  
“As attractive as you are,” Baekhyun says, giving a half-assed middle finger to an underclassmen that goes by and mocks his fanny pack, “you sure can be stupid sometimes.”


	2. Chapter 2

Junmyeon dreamt about Chanyeol last night. All he could see was big eyes and ears and hands and when he shot awake, his pinky felt like it was about to fall right off his hand. He hadn’t been able to go back to sleep. Instead he ate, showered, ironed every piece of his suit for the day, and tried his best to pretend like he wasn’t thinking about the boy who had crashed into his cubicle. 

Junmyeon even began to clean up his place, taking care of clutter that had built up ever since Jongdae left him. There was a mug on the coffee table that his ex used his last morning in the apartment, dried coffee crusting the bottom. He left it sitting there. 

Today is important, anyway. Junmyeon figures maybe it’s a good thing that he was up so early to come into work and finish what he couldn’t last night. He manages to ignore the thread rather well for most of the morning, watching the clock on his computer tick past six o’clock, then seven, then eight. The room slowly fills with his coworkers as the hum of the office increases in volume. Letting himself be swept into his work, he only thinks about Chanyeol when he straightens the pencils back into their cup, or his gaze snags against the drip of red on the carpet. 

Minseok comes in at nine. He pops his head into Junmyeon’s cubicle like he does every day, saying good morning and handing over a coffee he picked up for him on his way to work. Junmyeon sits at his desk, blowing into the cardboard cup, listening as Minseok sighs and shuffles in the next cubicle. 

He takes his time finishing his coffee and chucks it into the waste bin, practicing what he’d planned in his head while finishing his last spreadsheet this morning. Hopefully his good intentions will shine through the fact that he absolutely doesn’t know what he’s doing. 

Minseok looks up as Junmyeon leans against the entrance of his cubicle, crossing his arms in what he hopes is a nonchalant pose. Minseok's desk is so organized it makes his look like a warzone in comparison.

“So uh,” Junmyeon says, clearing his throat, “Got a lot of work today?”

If possible, the bags beneath Minseok’s eyes look worse. He probably hasn’t been sleeping at all this week. 

“Not as much. I’ve been busting my ass on my last couple cases so I could take my time with this new one. Big client. Don’t want to mess it up.”

Junmyeon nods, leaving too much time after Minseok speaks for it to seem natural when he blurts, “I asked for time off. For both of us. Today.”

Minseok’s hands pause over his keyboard before he slowly curls his fingers and moves them to his lap. He’s not looking at Junmyeon anymore. “Oh?”

“Yeah. It was approved. Sorry. I mean, for going behind your back. But I figured we could, you know, go do something. Else.” This is not what he rehearsed. For a moment, he thinks Minseok is going to say no, snap at him with that surprising sharpness Junmyeon has only witnessed twice before. But he slouches in his seat, looking frail and pale as he admits his defeat a lot quicker than he did last year. 

“Maybe that would be a good idea.”

In hindsight, Junmyeon thinks that he should have planned out some kind of schedule, or at least had a couple ideas of where to go. Luckily Minseok doesn’t seem to mind, following Junmyeon as the two of them walk the few blocks it takes to get to a nearby open market. The awkwardness lessens with every street they pass. They talk about Chelsea FC, take turns doing unflattering impersonations of their boss, and stop to stuff themselves with fried street food. 

Junmyeon is surprised when Minseok swallows down more than him, having not expected the man to eat much of anything today. He’s gotten so thin, only bone and tendon. Minseok must have noticed Junmyeon watching him as he ate, because as they throw away their trash, he says, “It’s better this year.”

“Oh,” Junmyeon dumbly says. The two of them begin walking back down the street. There’s vendors on their left and right, selling food, jewelry, scarves, paintings. When Junmyeon sees a stand filled with snapbacks, a vision of Chanyeol sweeps into him. He violently shakes his head to rid himself of it. 

“You doing okay?” Minseok asks.

“I’m _great._ ” He realizes maybe he shouldn’t say that to Minseok on a day like today, and amends, “I’m fine. I’m good. What about you? Are you doing alright?” Smooth.

It’s the closest they ever get to talking about it. Little pokes and prods that don’t really assess the situation. So he’s substantially surprised when Minseok pauses by a stall selling beanies, fiddles with one of them, and says, “I miss her a lot.” He looks up with a small smile. “It feels good to say. I miss her. A lot.”

This is unknown territory and Junmyeon feels like he’s five seconds away from doing something stupid to break the moment. It’s almost a miracle that he manages to garble out a simple, “I’m sorry.” 

Minseok picks up the beanie and places it over his head as Junmyeon watches him in the reflection of one of the mirrors. 

“I know. Thanks for asking for time off for me. It’s a nice distraction, and plus.” He checks another angle of himself in the mirror, nodding in satisfaction as he grabs his wallet out of his back pocket and pays the vendor for the hat. “I needed a new beanie for the fall.”

“Are you sure you want that one?” Junmyeon asks, then stops short as Minseok gives him a flat look. They timidly smile at each other, then continue walking down the street. 

Two years ago today, Minseok’s wife died. They’d been tied together for seven years, married for five of them. When one half of an _Akaito_ passes away, the thread on the person’s hand who is left behind turns silver and thin, barely visible except if it catches certain slants of light. Every day, Junmyeon wonders how Minseok feels when he sees that old shimmer; the reminder that she’s not here anymore. 

There’s a loud crashing noise from behind them. One of the stands they passed only minutes before has tipped into the sidewalk. Junmyeon looks over his shoulder, seeing a crowd of people trying to push the vendor’s stand upright, gathering the hats that spilled off of it. The thread around his pinky tightens and makes him stop. A head pops above the others, bobbing up and down as he bows his apologies. A hat turned backwards. Big ears sticking out on either side. 

Is that…it can’t be—“Chanyeol?”

“Who?” Minseok asks.

“No one.” But it’s too late. His friend squints to the crowd as the boy ducks behind another stall. Has he been following them? 

“Hey, isn’t that the ‘kid you interviewed’ yesterday?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“So who is he, really?” Minseok asks. He must be emboldened by the whole “I miss her” thing because normally he would have just let Junmyeon’s dodging of the subject go. “A secret admirer?”

“Something like that,” Junmyeon grumbles. Stupid kid just had to come back, didn’t he? Junmyeon wants to run away, even as his string pulls him in the boy’s direction. But, if he really wants Chanyeol to leave him alone, maybe he has to play a little game, first. He touches Minseok’s arm. “Feel like helping me ditch him?”

“Uh. Sure?”

Back by the snapback stall, Baekhyun is still apologizing to the vendor, grabbing hats off the ground and hitting dust off of them. Chanyeol saw Junmyeon and Minseok pause up ahead, barely managing to duck into the crowd before they could see him. 

The whole Follow Junmyeon Discreetly thing has been going swimmingly. If only he hadn’t been distracted by the cool hats and tripped while going to look at the stall. 

“Baek, come on! They’re walking again!” Chanyeol grabs Baekhyun by the wrist and whisks him away from the crowd. Even after all the chaos, he’s still feeling sexily spy-like. Okay, perhaps a fraction less sexy because Baekhyun is making him wear the fanny pack after refusing to leave their egg at school. 

“He had to have seen us, the whole street looked when you crashed into that stall.”

“Why are you doubting my spy abilities?”

“You have no spy abilities. What I’m doubting is your ability to walk without tripping over your huge feet.”

Almost an hour ago, they’d arrived at Junmyeon’s building just in time for Chanyeol to feel the thread pulling him in a different direction. By some stroke of luck the two of them found Junmyeon within ten minutes, meandering down the street with the man he recognized from yesterday. The older pair didn’t talk much, but it was easy to tell they were close. Something like jealousy crept through Chanyeol’s ribs even though he had no claim to Junmyeon. 

“Do you think they’re dating?” Baekhyun whispers, feeling rather ridiculous following Chanyeol’s creeping gait. People stare as they pass. “That could be why he doesn’t want to see you. Junmyeon could be in love with that guy.”

“That guy,” Chanyeol snorts, “Come on. I’m way taller, way handsomer, and way cooler. He may have a big kid job but I can play guitar.”

“Eloquently put.”

Chanyeol clotheslines Baekhyun against his chest as Junmyeon stops Minseok farther down the street, pointing at a shop window. “They’re going inside a store! Hurry!”

The shorter boy rubs his collarbones, barely able to keep up as Chanyeol sprints across the pavement, hiding himself under an umbrella at a café next to the building. 

“You know he could still see the bottom half of you, right?”

“Shut up and tell me what shop they went into.” Chanyeol nudges Baekhyun away, who huffs as he walks and peers at the storefront. He squints, reads a sign above the front door, then returns. “So? What is it?”

“A firearms shop.”

“Like…guns?”

“Guns. Ammo. Annoying bumper stickers for douchebags to put on their cars.”

“Oh,” Chanyeol says, then, “Hey! If my _Akaito_ wants to put a bumper sticker saying ‘Heavily Armed, Easily Pissed’ on his car, that doesn’t mean he’s a—well that is kind of douchey BUT that’s his choice.”

Junmyeon and Minseok are only inside the store for about ten minutes before reemerging. Chanyeol goes stiff beneath the umbrella like it’ll make him invisible as Baekhyun pretends to be terribly interested in a crack on the sidewalk. Then the chase continues. Two blocks later, they disappear into another store. Baekhyun is sent to peer into the shop. When he returns, his face is scrunched. “Taxidermy. There’s a deer standing on its hind legs, wearing some sort of butler suit in the front window. 

“Well that makes sense, I guess. Not the deer, but that Junmyeon must hunt. Then um, then get them stuffed.” Chanyeol is seriously hoping that Junmyeon is just letting Minseok drag him around. The mere thought of the movie _Bambi_ still makes him internally cry—that ruined the idea of hunting for him.

Soon they’re back on the street, Minseok patting Junmyeon’s shoulder, the two of them laughing. The fanny pack is chafing against Chanyeol’s waist, but he already owes Baekhyun for coming along with him, so he keeps his mouth shut of any complaints. 

The next store comes up relatively fast. Chanyeol watches from a hidden spot behind some trash cans as his friend walks in front of the shop, tilts his head in confusion, then takes his time peering around the front window. He jogs back looking torn between laughing and affronted. 

“I already know the answer, but just in case: did Junmyeon, by any chance, mention his religion to you between the bloody nose and shoving money at you?”  
“No?”

“Any interest in becoming Wiccan?”  
“That’s what the store is?”

Baekhyun nods. “There’s lots of tarot cards, candles, Magick books, and things with pentacles on them in the display.”

“O—okay. It could be Minseok who wanted to go in there. Besides, everyone can believe what they want, right? Who am I to judge…” Chanyeol slowly peters out.

The day goes on. Junmyeon and Minseok duck into stores then Baekhyun checks out what they’re looking at. Chanyeol finds himself more and more discouraged as his friend comes back and tells him name after name of the stores.

“Porn R Us.”

“Feeder Rodents”

“Emily’s Victorian Doll Shop.”

“Fetish. Fantasy.” Baekhyun says the last one with relish, his face tinged pink from what he must have seen in the display window. He pats Chanyeol’s slouching shoulders, sitting beside him on the bench. “Do you think that maybe we should just go home?”

Inside of Fetish Fantasy, Minseok is inspecting a rather large dildo. He grabs it to show to Junmyeon, the pink silicone penis flailing as he waves it and says, “This is insane! Would you want something this huge shoved into you?”

Junmyeon chuckles, batting it away. They became numb to embarrassment back at the porn store. He was actually starting to have fun now, thinking he had never heard Minseok laugh so much in the five years they worked together. All this time being friends, they never hung out like this. 

Hopefully Chanyeol was properly freaked out by now. He was surprised every time he came out of a store and saw he was still there, doing an absolutely poor job of hiding himself. Chanyeol was too long, too goofy, to go anywhere without sticking out. It also became obvious by the taxidermy store that he’d brought along a friend, a cute short boy who scouted ahead then reported back.

“Are you making me an offer, Minseok?” Junmyeon teases, which earns him a whack with the dildo. Minseok puts it back on the shelf, peering out of the window as Junmyeon looks through the wall of vibrators and secretly wonders if it’s time he bought a new one. Newly single, new vibrator?

“Don’t you think we’ve taken them on long enough of a journey?” Minseok asks. His friend shrugs. “They’re pretty young. They probably skipped school today to come here.”

Junmyeon peers over Minseok’s shoulder. Chanyeol isn’t even trying to hide now, sitting on the bench and looking exhausted. It stirs something inside of him that’s too close to sympathy for him to be comfortable with it. He shouldn’t feel sorry for him. He told him not to come back. His thread tugs. _Shit_.

“Yeah. I guess I should tell him the jig is up.” 

“Think they’re hungry?” 

“Probably. You remember that age, eating everything in sight—” 

The bell to the entrance rings and Junmyeon looks up in time so see Minseok walking out of the store. 

Outside on the bench, Baekhyun starts hitting Chanyeol’s shoulder, trying to get his attention. He crossly looks up at his friend, “What? Baek, _what_? Stop.”

“Hey boys.”

Chanyeol slowly tilts his head up. It’s Minseok, smiling at the two of them. The man crosses his arms, studying the boys on the bench before saying, “Have time to go to dinner?”

 

☓

 

Chanyeol is grinning again. That same, overwhelming grin that makes him seem mentally unsteady. But, Junmyeon catches his own reflection in a mirror at the restaurant, and sees that he’s smiling too. Things are considerably less tense since he explained why he took Minseok into all of those stores.

“So you don’t own any guns?” Chanyeol asks between mouthfuls of his fries. He and Baekhyun are completely annihilating their food, acting like they’ve been starved for days and not hours. The restaurant Minseok chose is low lit with cracked leather booths, comfortable and homey and making it too easy for Junmyeon to relax around Chanyeol.

“Yeah. I’m not a big fan. And why haven't you taken your hat off? We're eating, kid.”  
Chanyeol obediently takes off his hat and puts it into his lap, revealing a mess of dyed brown copper hair. “Taxidermy?”  
“That place gave me the creeps. Minseok picked up a stuffed squirrel and chased me around the store with it. Not to mention I was scarred as a child from watching Bambi.”

Chanyeol lowly chuckles beside Junmyeon, who can feel the sound go up and down his bones. It makes him shiver. To cover it, he grabs his beer and takes a long drink. This is a bad idea. Minseok made it seem so harmless as all of them walked to the restaurant together. Jongdae used to call him gullible, he's starting to understand why. 

“So Chanyeol,” Minseok says after swallowing a particularly huge bite of his burger, “How do you know Junmyeon?”

_Oh no_ , Junmyeon thinks, but before he can interject, Chanyeol says, “I met him through my big sister. Her and Junmyeon met and became friends in college.”

It’s plausible enough, Chanyeol figures, stretching the truth. His big sister is only a couple years older, a junior at the local university. Besides, for whatever reason, Junmyeon seems completely adverse to the whole _Akaito_ thing, so maybe he should just not mention it. For him, sitting just inches away from Junmyeon, he can’t help but trace his eyes over the red string between them as warmth simmers in his chest. He wants to show it to everyone.

“Wow. So why did your sister decide to go to college across the country?” Minseok asks, looking interested. Chanyeol blanches as Baekhyun chokes on an onion ring. He didn’t know that Junmyeon wasn’t from around here. Minseok obviously did.

“To. Experience new things. She likes…that area. Over there.”

Junmyeon should feel embarrassed, but he laughs at the clunkiness of the reply, accidentally leaning into Chanyeol with the force of it. “It really _is_ a nice area, to be fair.”

He looks up at Chanyeol to see the boy cautiously smiling down at him. Melty brown eyes and long lashes. Junmyeon shifts away, waving his hand to catch the waitress’ attention and order another beer. By the time new a bottle is cracked open and he’s downed half of it, the other three are talking about the fanny pack sitting at the end of the table. It’s been zipped open, revealing a plump egg.

“It lasts for a week,” Baekhyun is saying to Minseok, “You start with 200 points on Monday. You get points docked for not having the egg with you—she calls it child abandonment—or for treating it with anything else but care. On Friday you turn the egg in, and she also docks points for any marks or cracks. There’s also a parenting journal that we have to turn in.”

“So how many eggs has Chanyeol broken this week?” Junmyeon asks, earning himself an indignant snort from the boy beside him. 

“Five.” Baekhyun glares at Chanyeol across the table. “He also lost us twenty points by playing catch with it in the hall.”

“Which is bullshit. Every parent plays with their kid by tossing it in the air,” Chanyeol says through a mouthful of food. 

“You chucked it at Jongin like a friggin’ speed ball.”

Chanyeol swallows and leans toward Junmyeon, psuedo-whispering, “I have really strong arms. If that interests you.”

Junmyeon presses his pointer finger against Chanyeol’s forehead to push him away. “It does not.”

Chanyeol huffs, taking a vicious bite of his burger. He noticed Junmyeon staring at his biceps earlier and thought he’d made a breakthrough. Apparently not. 

"Hey Baekhyun, do you know this place has a jukebox?" Minseok suddenly asks. Baekhyun looks up, a fry sticking out of his mouth.

"Uh, no?"

"Let's go check it out." In seconds, Minseok has pushed a confused Baekhyun out of the booth, wrapped his arm around the boy's shoulders, and manhandled him across the restaurant. For being such a tiny guy, Minseok sure knows how to use his strength. 

"I didn't know there was a jukebox here," Chanyeol whines, trying to peer over the booths to see his friend. "Why did he only take Baekhyun?" 

Junmyeon laughs, thinking he's joking around, then laughs more when he realizes Chanyeol didn't pick up on Minseok's less-than-subtle way of leaving the two of them alone. "If you're a good kid and finish your carrot sticks, I'll give you a quarter and you can go play with it."

"Hey. Stop calling me kid. I'm not a kid."

"You're seventeen."

"Eighteen in two weeks. An adult. Officially"

"An official adult, that's still in high school."

"When are you going to stop beating it over my head that I'm younger than you?" Chanyeol has a grip on his straw, using it to swirl the ice around at the bottom of his glass. He's getting pouty, his bottom lip sticking out in a way Junmyeon tries not to think is endearing. 

"Never." Junmyeon puts his elbow on the table, shifting so his body faces the boy's. "I told you I didn't want to have a relationship with you, Chanyeol. I call you 'kid' because you don't seem to understand what 'no' means. There's reasoning behind it, why did you come back and disrespect my decision?"

Chanyeol uses his free hand to defiantly tug his hat back on. Something about his snapbacks always gives him a little more balance; confidence. "Because this thread doesn't just involve you. _We’re—_ the two of us— _Akaito_. Why should you get to make such a big decision when it effects me just as much?" 

It's hard for Junmyeon to accept that Chanyeol has a point. He doesn't want to linger too long on it, let it crack his resolve that no matter what, he has to keep this kid away. Instead of continuing to argue, he sighs, turning back to face the table and slouch in his seat. He flags their waitress down and starts to order another beer, but Chanyeol interrupts. 

"Wouldn't that be your fourth? Get him a pink lemonade, instead please." Chanyeol gives the waitress one of his puppy dog smiles that makes her grin right back. That doesn't make Junmyeon happy. He opens his mouth to tell Chanyeol off, but the boy says, "Your breath is already dank and you're burping every other minute. Not so much fun to be stuck in a booth with."

"You didn't _have_ to sit by me." Junmyeon is already repressing another burp. He curses himself for not having any mints. 

"True. I just really really wanted to. And as much as I enjoy the sport of burping it's just annoying when you do it under your breath. Either proudly show your stripes or cut that shit out."

The older man isn't placated until his new drink arrives. He begrudgingly pops a straw out of its wrapper and sticks it into his cup. "How'd you know I love pink lemonade?"

The corner of Chanyeol's mouth twitches, his dimple deepening. "I didn't. It's my favorite, too." 

It's dark outside when they finish dinner, step into the cooling air. The fanny pack is back on Baekhyun, much to his chagrin, and Minseok pulls him away again, down the street so that Chanyeol and Junmyeon can be alone before they part ways. 

Junmyeon puts on his best authoritative expression, crossing his arms and readying himself. But the kid isn't paying attention, digging in his backpack before pulling something out and holding it in the space between them. 

Junmyeon looks down. It’s his money. The whole clump of it, somehow looking small in Chanyeol’s grip. 

“What? Why—”

“I didn’t feel right taking it."

"Why not? I gave it to you so you could get home without being mugged. Instead you rode on the sketchy metro _with_ all that money to increase your chances of getting mugged." Junmyeon frowns, pushing the extended hand away only to have Chanyeol insistently hold it back. "Logic does not bode well with you." 

"My logic was that you must spend a lot of hours in that cubicle to make enough money where you can give some stranger hundreds in cab fare. I didn't want to waste so much of your hard work for one trip across the city."

“You’re not a some stranger,” Junmyeon finds himself saying, instantly wanting to take it back. He expects Chanyeol to smile, for his eyes to take on that mischievous gleam that they do every time he feels like he's making a little headway. It's not until he doesn't, face remaining somber, that Junmyeon wishes he would.

"Then what am I?" Chanyeol asks. When he wants to, he can be serious. He can stand tall, square his shoulders, make people listen. "What am I to you, so I should take your money?"

_My Akaito_ , Junmyeon thinks, but that isn't the right answer to get what he wants—or in this case, doesn't want. Being tied to someone brings the innate want to take care of them. He has this need for Chanyeol to stay safe, even if they aren’t going to be together. 

Heavy silence hangs between them. When Chanyeol gulps, the sound travels.

"Junmyeon. I know you're about to tell me to go home. That you don't want to be tied. What is it you said yesterday? 'Opting out?' You're right, I don't understand. But I know that I…" Chanyeol's voice quiets and is unsure for the first time since they met. "I feel good when I’m around you. Even when you’re not talking to me or looking at me I just like—I like being next to you. Don’t you kind of, maybe, even a tiny bit, feel the same way? Want to get to know me a little before you know what you're walking away from?”

No. Because getting to know someone makes it even harder to walk away. Loving someone makes it feel like they're taking a chunk out of your chest when they leave. This is the opportunity, the moment that Junmyeon needs to be cruel. Cut it, sharply, and turn his back. The thread twitches, tightening every second that goes by that there's no reply.

Until finally. 

"If I give you my number, will that be enough of an answer for now?" Junmyeon asks.

Chanyeol lets out a breath he'd been holding. All of the tension drains from his shoulders as he bows his head and shakes it. When he looks up, he's smiling, only a fraction of what it was earlier, but it puts Junmyeon slightly more at ease. 

"You do realize that this was the bargain the first night," Chanyeol says, putting the money back into his pocket as Junmyeon gets his cell phone out. "Everything would have been so much easier if you would have just done this yesterday." 

"Maybe if you made the same little speech then I would have. Really, awe-inspiring."

“Yeah yeah, I get it, you’re sarcastic and snotty.”

"You're such a strange kid."

Chanyeol takes the phone away from Junmyeon, typing in his number then sending himself a text. Junmyeon snatches his phone back. "I'd say I'm _your_ strange kid but I know that would make you uncomfortable— _even though we're tied together and you're just in denial_ —and getting your number seems good enough." The boy puts his backpack on and goes to join Baekhyun and Minseok where they stand below a streetlight. He dramatically stops and looks over his shoulder, halfway there. "FOR NOW."

Junmyeon quite desperately wishes he could rewind the past couple hours and just take Minseok to a movie instead. As Chanyeol reaches them, Junmyeon can hear him yell, "Baek! We livin' the high life tonight! Gonna take one-na them fancy taxicabs home!"

Dear God. What did he do? He just gave his number to a child. 

When the boys leave, Minseok joins him, the two of them beginning the long walk back to the parking garage by Lachowski, Miller & Co. It's peaceful. Quiet. Junmyeon has a feeling he should enjoy it while he can. 

"So. When did you guys tie together?" Minseok asks when they eventually reach his car. So tired from the day, Junmyeon can't find it within himself to react in the warranted way. Of course Minseok would notice. Of course he would figure it out, especially after Chanyeol's dumb story about knowing each other through his sister. 

"Yesterday," he mumbles.

"Wow." Minseok gives a low whistle. "Got a lot to handle. Exactly how old is he?"

"Seventeen. Senior in high school."

"Ouch."

"You're telling me. I also had a major lapse of judgement tonight and gave him my phone number. I blame it on you, making us all go to dinner together so he could start to get under my skin."

"He's your _Akaito_ , he doesn't need any help getting under your skin. It's what soul mates do best to each other."

Junmyeon finds it in himself to remember the whole reason why he wasn't at work today. He puts his hand on Minseok's shoulder, whose mouth twists as he tries not to smile at how awkward it is.

"You uh, going to be okay tonight?"

Minseok puts his hand on Junmyeon's shoulder, more steady and sure. "Yeah. I can't tell you how much I appreciate you doing this for me today. Instead of moping behind my desk I saw a stuffed fox wearing a monocle and a bowling hat, I uncovered an unknown fear of glass victorian dolls, and I got to hit you with the biggest dildo in Fetish Fantasy."

"You're welcome?"

Minseok pats him, opens his car door, then swings inside. "See you tomorrow, Junmyeon." He goes to shut his door, then stops. "And I know it might seem strange because he's so young, but remember that people are linked through _Akaito_ for a reason. I know you've had it rough, and it's understandable why you'd be so adverse to it, but don't be so quick to throw your thread away."

"What is up with us today?" Junmyeon asks, nervously scratching at the back of his neck. "We're so touchy-feely."

"Maybe it's a good thing."

 

☓

 

Apparently the doctor’s note that Jongin had helped Chanyeol forge with photoshop did not roll over well with his school’s administration. When he got home, both of his parents were waiting to descend on him like hawks. Mrs. and Mr. Park made him sit in what he and his sister, Yura, had dubbed The Trouble Chair in their living room, then informed him that someone from the school had called and left a message about a certain senior skipping all of his classes. 

“Lil’ ol’ me?” Chanyeol feinted innocence then his mom whacked him with the newspaper.

His parents took turns telling him just how disappointed in him they were—in summation: very—and asked where he’d been all day. Chanyeol wasn’t ready to tell them about his _Akaito_. He loved his mom and dad but they had a way of trying to take control of everything, and he wanted to keep Junmyeon to himself for a little bit longer. Not to mention the added complication that his soul mate didn’t seem to want him, or that he was in his thirties.

Yeah. His parents should be kept in the dark a little while longer. So he told them he’d just been playing a little hooky.

He would have been grounded had it not been for the piece of paper hanging from a magnet on the refrigerator. The acceptance letter of his Early Action application to university came just two days ago. State wasn’t a hard place to get into, and the reason Chanyeol had chosen it was because of the low tuition fees, but his parents were the proud type and celebrated more than he had. It was the same school Yura attended, in the heart of downtown. 

As Chanyeol closes the door to his room, a bag of chips he smuggled from the kitchen hidden beneath his shirt, it dawns on him that the school he’ll be attending next year is really close to Lachowski, Miller  & Co.

He chuckles to himself. Junmyeon is going to be pissed. 

His parents made it clear by sending him to his room that he was supposed to be “thinking about the consequences of his actions,” but he flops to his bed, rips open the bag, and stares at Junmyeon’s contact in his phone. He stuffs his mouth with chips and squeals and wiggles. For some reason this new connection feels almost as strong as the thread between them.

He starts typing a text only to erase it. Types another. Erases it. Chanyeol crafts dozens of texts before he finally settles on one, then hits send.

On the other side of the city, Junmyeon’s phone vibrates from where it's perched on the empty pillow next to his. His dark bedroom is bathed in the glow from the television at the foot of his bed. Tonight, even catching up on his favorite drama is doing little to numb his mind, help him relax so he can get to sleep. 

The text is from Chanyeol. 

< _Wats ur surname >_

_ <I’m not talking to you like that.> _He sends back. It only takes couple seconds, and his phone vibrates again. 

< _Dearest Junmyeon, I would be most obliged if you would let me in on the mystery that is your surname. >_

_ <Better_.> Damn it. Junmyeon is smiling again. He purses his lips together even though no one else can see him. < _It's Kim. Kim Junmyeon. >_

Chanyeol takes longer to reply this time, but a couple minutes later sends, < _Thanks. I like it._ _Goodnight. >_

_Huh_. He expected the kid to blow up his phone with texts. It’s not like he’s disappointed. Not at all. Junmyeon is trying to get to sleep, he doesn’t need Chanyeol texting him so late. Whatever he tells himself, he glances eleven more times at his phone before turning off the TV with an aggravated grunt, burying himself in blankets so he doesn’t look at it again. 

 

☓

 

“Fuck. Baekhyun was right. I hate to admit it, but he’s hot,” Jongin says, leaning over Chanyeol’s shoulder to get a good look at the computer screen. Chanyeol’s chest puffs with pride as Sehun and Kyungsoo agree. Sehun knocks Chanyeol’s hand away from the mouse so he can continue to scroll down the pictures that came up with a Google Images search of _Kim Junmyeon_ , _Lachowski, Miller & Co._

Including Baekhyun, the five of them had decided to spend the second half of their lunch in the computer lab. Chanyeol’s friends’ interest had been piqued when they asked how it went yesterday, and Baekhyun answered that Junmyeon was ten times more attractive than Chanyeol. 

“He’s kind of, prince-like,” Kyungsoo quietly says: a thought he hadn’t meant to say out loud. Most of the pictures are staged, lots of organized standing with people at the company, or head-shots taken for advertising purposes, but it’s easy to see that Kim Junmyeon is way too attractive and mature for someone like Chanyeol. 

“How tall is he?” Sehun asks.

“About Baekyun’s height,” Chanyeol replies, his eyes slightly glazing over as he stares at the pictures. He thinks that Junmyeon might just be the best thing in the entire world. The man is a perfect balance of pretty and handsome. Milky skin, kind eyes. Striking nose, sharp jaw. At times he looks a lot younger than thirty-one, but with the smallest shift of his expression he turns strong and commanding. 

“Nice. So he’s little, easy for you to throw around.” Jongin suggestively waggles his eyebrows. It’s easy for Chanyeol to ignore him when he’s hit with the mental image of himself picking Junmyeon up and throwing him across the room. Not exactly what Jongin meant. 

At the computer next to Chanyeol’s, Baekhyun clicks on an article he found. “It looks like Junmyeon is some kind of financial accountant. Lachowski, Miller & Co. is one of the biggest corporations on this side of the country.”

“So not only is he hot, but he’s filthy rich. Damn it Yeol, you really lucked out on this one.” Jongin rests his chin on Chanyeol’s shoulder, who promptly shrugs him off. 

“It doesn’t necessarily mean that,” Kyungsoo says, peering at Baekhyun’s screen. “Chanyeol said he was in a cubicle. People who work in cubicles usually aren’t filthy rich.”

Chanyeol and Baekhyun exchange a glance out of the corner of their eyes, both thinking about that wad of money they used to take the cab home last night.

“I don’t care either way,” Chanyeol says, and it’s the truth. Sehun lets go of the mouse and looks Chanyeol up and down, the corner of his lip snagging into a sneer. 

“It’s so weird,” he says, “There’s this old guy wearing a suit, looking like someone straight out of a _manhwa_ , and then there’s…you.”

“What’s wrong with me?”

“Do we have enough time to make a list before the warning bell rings?” Baekhyun teases. 

Chanyeol kicks Baekhyun’s chair and glares at Sehun. “Yeah, so Junmyeon may be fancier than me, and he may use some sort of styling gel, and sure, he wears shiny pointy shoes, but I’m—”

“You’re great, Chanyeol,” Kyungsoo soothes, even though he thinks it wouldn’t kill the guy to dress in something other than old skinny jeans and worn band t-shirts every now and then. Winter is coming and he’s been busting out his never-ending collection of hoodies.

“See?” Chanyeol says, “Soo says I’m great.”

“Soo’s too nice for his own good.” Jongin reaches his arm in front of Chanyeol to poke Kyungsoo’s cheek. Like a patient mom, Kyungsoo allows him, but the glare he sends Jongin has him quickly retracting his hand. 

“You’re okay, if best,” Baekhyun says, but at least Chanyeol knows _he’s_ kidding. 

Chanyeol looks down at his phone as the others continue to gape at Junmyeon’s pictures. This is probably toggling the line between being inquisitive and creepy, but Junmyeon hasn’t given him much to work with. 

< _Hey, how’s your day going?_ > Chanyeol sends Junmyeon a text. His stomach nervously bubbles at even the thought of talking to him.

The rest of his lunch passes, his finger poised over his screen to receive a text back, but nothing happens. Chanyeol eventually has to leave the computer lab feeling that same, strange mixture of excited and and disappointed that Junmyeon has a way of leaving him with. 

At Lachowski, Miller & Co., Junmyeon is trying his best to not look at his phone. He hated the zing of warmth that hit him when he saw the kid’s name pop up on his screen, and as self-punishment is refusing to answer it. 

They’re not some couple. They don’t need to check in on each other. Chanyeol should be focusing on school and Junmyeon should be focusing on work. 

Lunch passes. A meeting drags by. He goes through a conference call. Then can’t take it any longer and texts Chanyeol, < _I’m fine. Don’t text me when you’re at school._ >

Two minutes go by, then he receives, < _Yes sir_. _Was just thinking about you and hoped you’re having a grand day in your cubicle_. > Junmyeon checks the time, it’s a quarter past two. He must still be in class. 

< _I am. Now stop texting me_. >

< _Don’t you want to know how my day is going?_ >

< _I feel like you’re going to tell me, either way_. >

< _Thank you for asking! I’m having a great day. They served bosco sticks at lunch and Baek and I finally got to turn in and get rid of that stupid ass egg._ >

< _What grade did you end up getting?_ > Junmyeon hits send before he realizes what he’s doing: spurring the kid on, showing interest. 

< _150 out of 200. A steady C. It would have been 165, but when the teacher called us up to turn it in I gave her the egg by bowling it across her desk. It cracked a little. My head still hurts where Baek hit me._ >

Junmyeon chuckles then squeezes his throat to stop. < _You deserved it. Now stop texting me._ >

< _Okay_. >

Junmyeon suspiciously squints at his phone. That was too easy. 

Minseok pokes his head above the wall of his cubicle. “You’re texting him?”

Junmyeon protectively shields the screen of his phone away. “No. I’m texting, another friend.” He hates how transparent of a lie that is. Minseok is the closest thing he has to a friend around here.

“Huh. Guess you’re further along than I thought you were.”

“I’m not further along anywhere,” Junmyeon defensively says, even if it doesn’t make much sense.

Minseok raises an eyebrow then lowers behind the wall. Junmyeon tosses a pencil over the divider and hopes it lands somewhere in the vicinity of Minseok’s head. 

His phone vibrates in his hand. And keeps vibrating. It’s not a text, it’s a call, the word “Kid” coming across the screen. Too flustered to think properly, Junmyeon scrambles to answer it. 

“Why are you calling me? Don’t call me!” he hisses, hearing the faint laughter of Minseok coming through the wall. 

“You told me to stop texting you.” Chanyeol’s deep voice is laced with amusement. In the background, Junmyeon can hear the familiar sound of people talking, lockers slamming, phones ringing.

“Aren’t you in class?”  
“School ends at 2:25.”

Junmyeon checks the time again, 2:26. “I’m hanging up, now.”

“Wait!” Chanyeol says. “It’s Friday. I can’t make it there tonight, but what are you doing tomorrow? Sometime after three, well four, depending on how long it takes me to get there.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing, but it’s definitely not going to have anything to do with you.”

“Look, I get it, you’re kicking and screaming, but I’m dragging you into this either way. You know that I can find you wherever you are because of the thread, right? So either brace yourself for me to drop in on you like the first night or meet me somewhere.”

Junmyeon is slightly taken aback. The kid can’t take care of a goddamn egg but he can say things like _that_. 

“I can call the cops on you for stalking me,” Junmyeon says, even though both of them know it’s not a real threat. 

“Fine. I’ll tell them how you took me to Fetish Fantasy.”

“I didn’t take you inside.”

“I’m adorable and a minor and I smell nice, who do you think they’ll believe?”

“Hey, what does smell have to do with—” It strikes Junmyeon that this kid is purposefully pushing him off-point. “Can’t you just give me a little more time?”

“No. So where should we meet tomorrow? Your place?” The hopeful sound of Chanyeol’s voice is all too easy to crush. Junmyeon decides where, successfully hangs up as the boy tries to launch him into another conversation, then lets out along breath while sagging into his chair. 

He has the sensation that he just played a whole round of soccer, which he is horrible at, and ended up with his face pressed into the grass and dirt. Weren’t soul mates supposed to invoke butterflies, instead?

 

☓

 

Chanyeol had to be in at work at five a.m. Saturday morning. Harper’s Guitar Store receives its stock off the truck once a month. Chanyeol’s job on truck day is to help unload the boxes, bring them into the building, then take inventory before storing things in the back. The morning is noticeably colder, filled with frost and making him shiver as he hefts box after box inside. 

Harper’s is owned by an old married couple, Mr. and Mrs. Lim. They’re only able to employ a handful of people, Chanyeol being the youngest by far, but that makes them all like some weird family. He loves working there, surrounded by instruments and dusty sheet music and speakers. On weekdays, Chanyeol gives guitar lessons to kids fourteen and younger. Not only does he like working with kids, but he loves the way they look at him like he’s a Rock God as he plays his guitar. 

It’s three o’clock when he leaves for the day, his backpack filled with cut-up fruit that Mrs. Lim had brought in just for him. This would usually be the time he went back home and slept for the next six hours, but the thought of being able to see Junmyeon again has left him feeling wide awake. He doesn’t have time drop the food off, so he munches on it while riding the metro. He puts his headphones over his ears, turns on the music stored in his phone, and watches through the window as the underground whirrs by. 

Junmyeon told Chanyeol to meet him in a park by his place of work. It’s a little patch of green between the skyscrapers of his block, with lush trees, a duck pond, and a winding gray sidewalk. Sometimes Junmyeon likes to come here during his lunch breaks and walk around. The park may be surrounded by concrete, but it gives the illusion of disappearing into nature for the hour he has to spare. 

Junmyeon sits on one of the benches by the pond, watching the water ripple in the breeze. Most of the ducks are gone by this time of year, headed south to hide from the looming winter. Junmyeon thinks maybe that’s a good thing, lest they want to stick around and possibly end up in that tacky taxidermy store wearing a bow tie or bowler hat. 

It’s colder than he expected. His cable-knit sweater does a good job of blocking the wind but isn’t quite thick enough to keep his body heat against his skin. Hopefully this thing with the kid won’t take long. Maybe he’ll buy him some street food, walk around a little, then be home and wrapped in his favorite blanket by six o’clock. 

The moment after he dimly registers that Chanyeol is running ten minutes late, he sees the kid jogging through the trees, bypassing the sidewalk altogether. He’s wearing a red zip-up hoodie that looks snuggly and warm, with a pair of those clunky headphones around his neck that are all the rage now. As always, Chanyeol has on a gray snapback and is strapped into his backpack. 

“I’m—sorry,” Chanyeol wheezes as he approaches the bench, a hand thudding against his chest like running brought him upon the brink of death. The bruise on his face looks ghastlier than Junmyeon remembers. “There was—problem—with the—doors—couldn’t close—had to stop—metro—late _._ ”

The kid dramatically flops to the bench, leaning against Junmyeon with his full weight as he tries to catch his breath. Junmyeon tries his best to smile at an elderly couple that shuffles by and stares as they pass. When they disappear between the trees, Junmyeon shoves Chanyeol off. 

“You weigh five-hundred pounds.”

“In my defense, I just ate three-hundred pounds of fruit while riding the metro,” Chanyeol says. When Junmyeon raises an eyebrow at him, he takes his backpack off and procures a huge Tupperware container out of it. It’s basically the size of his bag, half-filled with grapes, strawberries, cantaloupe, and kiwi. 

“Why are you carting all that around?”

Chanyeol pops the lid off and places the container on the bench between the two of them. “A grandma that I work with gave it to me and I didn’t have time to take it home before coming here. She’s always trying to stuff me with food, usually in bulk. Hungry?”

On principal, Junmyeon thinks its best to decline, but the smell of the fruit is wafting out of thecontainer and it smells criminally fresh and delicious. Chanyeol grins as Junmyeon reaches in and grabs a piece of orange cantaloupe then pops it into his mouth. It tastes even better than it smells. 

The two of them take turns reaching into the Tupperware. Chanyeol is the furthest thing from hungry, but seeing Junmyeon in a sweater makes him salivate so he shoves fruit in his mouth to keep it from dribbling down his chin. Who knew an ugly knit could be so sexy?

Junmyeon is too busy enjoying the fruit to notice Chanyeol staring at him. He’d brought home a ton of work in his briefcase for the weekend. He’d spent the morning and afternoon buried in files on his laptop, only getting up to make trips to the coffee machine and bathroom. His stomach hadn’t bothered to remind him that liquid caffeine wasn’t considered sustenance until he ate that first piece of fruit. 

Soon enough, the entire tub is empty. He looks up, chewing through the last grape, to see Chanyeol appraising him. 

“For a tiny man, you sure can eat.”

“I’m not tiny.” It’s an automatic reply, like his brain is still in defiance that he’s always eye-level with people’s chins and shoulders. 

“It’s not a bad thing,” Chanyeol says, stuffing the container into his backpack. “It makes you cute.”

Junmyeon narrows his eyes at the kid. “I’m not cute, either.”

“Do you not own a mirror or something?” Chanyeol says it with all the greasiness of a pickup line. He looks pleased with himself until Junmyeon forces the brim of his hat down so it covers his face. Chanyeol leaves it there, blindly sliding his arm behind Junmyeon and leaning back. “What, my face too hot to handle?”

Junmyeon tries to remember why he agreed to meet Chanyeol in the first place. “No. If I have to stare at it any longer, it’s going to make me vomit up all that fruit I ate. But, I mean, thanks for sharing. It was really good.”

Chanyeol raises his brim, fixing his hat on his head. “So where do you want to go today?”

“Go?”

“Yeah. On our date.”

Junmyeon really does feel sick to his stomach, then. “This isn’t a date. This isn’t even—even a—a _thing_. This is you and me bumping into each other for a little bit.”

“Okay, so for future reference, when am I going to be able to start calling these bumping-into-each-other-for-a-little-bit-things dates?” The two of them stand from the bench, begin walking side-by-side around the perimeter of the pond.

“Maybe when you’re twenty-five, I’ll admit we’re—” Junmyeon was about to say _Akaito_ , but it still didn’t feel right. “—tied. ”

“But when I’m twenty-five you’ll be almost forty.”

“I’ll be 38.”

“Almost. Forty.” He makes Junmyeon cringe at the thought. “What if we call it dating when—”

Junmyeon grabs Chanyeol’s forearm, bringing them both to a stop. His gaze turns hard, voice lowering as he says, “Listen. I don’t even want to think about dating you right now. If you want to keep seeing me, you have to stop talking like that. I agreed to get to know you, but not in a romantic way. At least try and understand where I’m coming from, here.”

Chanyeol looks slightly flustered. With wide eyes, he looks down where Junmyeon is gripping his arm. The older man instantly lets him go like he’s been burned, his expression softening back to normal. 

Chanyeol scuffs the toe of his shoe against the ground, giving a little pout as he sullenly nods. “I get it. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Junmyeon says, then awkwardly clears his throat. He wants to apologize for being a little harsh, but uses all his willpower not to. “Come on. Let’s go on a walk. I’ll show you the best parts of the park.”

The two of them start walking again. Eventually, as Junmyeon points out the community garden he used to own a plot of, then buys them both hot dogs from his favorite stand, Chanyeol is at ease again. Junmyeon became so serious within a millisecond—almost angry—and it makes Chanyeol feel terribly guilty for making him snap like that.

They make two laps around the park, talking about the trees, comparing their favorite seasons, and laughing as Chanyeol tells a story about the time he looked up as a flock of geese flew above him and a piece of shit landed right on his face. Junmyeon tells him about the time he was attacked by a flock of seagulls at the beach the previous summer, like something straight out of Alfred Hitchcock’s _The Birds_ , and is surprised when Chanyeol not only gets the reference, but talks about seeing _Rear Window_ as a child and becoming convinced that his next door neighbor was a murderer. He wasn’t. 

Junmyeon has to admit that it’s easy talking to Chanyeol. To be fair, it was easy to talk to Jongdae, too. They’re both funny in their own way. Talkative and stubborn. But Jongdae always spoke with a tempting curve of his mouth, and Junmyeon isn’t even allowed to _think_ about Chanyeol’s mouth. 

Junmyeon knows he shouldn’t be comparing, but it’s almost impossible since he was just dumped a couple weeks ago. He looks down at the thread on his pinky, shimmering between him and Chanyeol, and eyes it as he thinks, _I told you I wasn’t ready for this_. 

It’s strange to Chanyeol how he’s only known Junmyeon for four days. They’ve met three times. But it’s amazing that in a moment like this, where they’re just walking side by side, Chanyeol feels like they’ve been doing this his whole life. Time stretches and blurs, as if Junmyeon had been there all along and will be there in the future. 

Around the beginning of the sixth lap, Chanyeol notices Junmyeon is shivering. He’d been trying not to make it obvious, wrapping his arms around himself and clenching his jaw shut so his teeth didn’t chatter. He could have herded them into a nearby café some time ago, but he really likes the park. Really likes walking. Sort-of-maybe-kind-of enjoys talking with Chanyeol while _walking_ in the _park_. 

There’s the sound of a zipper, and the next thing Junmyeon knows, Chanyeol is shoving his hoodie in front of him. Junmyeon pushes it away. “What? No. You keep it on. You were smart enough to wear a jacket.”

“Have you learned nothing about me these past couple days?” Chanyeol asks, starting to whack the hoodie against Junmyeon’s stomach. “I don’t take ‘no’ well.”

_Sometimes you do_ , Junmyeon thinks, _when it matters the most_. Chanyeol seems to be an expert at toeing the line. Hundreds of reasons flash through his mind as to why he should put his foot down on this, too, but he huffs and accepts the hoodie. In all honesty he is kind of tiny, and skinny, and unable to generate a proper amount of body heat. 

Junmyeon swings his arms into it. He bats Chanyeol’s hands away as they go to zip up the jacket, doing it himself. The sleeves are too long, of course, but he lets them hang over his hands to keep them away from the wind. It’s so warm, and cozy, and smells like laundry detergent and a hint of that cologne Chanyeol thinks is good but just makes him smell like a frat boy. 

Chanyeol really, really likes how Junmyeon looks wearing his hoodie. Who cares if he’s cold? Who cares if his nose freezes right off his face and he has to staple it back on? Just the sight of the older man wearing his clothing makes his heart feel like it might careen right out of his chest and land with a splat on the pavement. _A good kind of splat_ , Chanyeol thinks as Junmyeon pulls the top of the hoodie up to cover his mouth, peering at Chanyeol with his pretty dark eyes. 

“If you’re going to look at me like that, I’m going to take it right back off,” he mumbles through the fabric. Chanyeol has to rip his eyes away. 

They make another couple rounds before Chanyeol checks the time and groans. “I have to go.”

“You do? I thought you’d stick around for as long as you could, try to get me to tell you where I live again. Isn’t that the routine?” Junmyeon says with a smile. Chanyeol scrunches his nose at him.

“I kind of got in trouble for skipping school on Thursday. My parents are inches away from putting me on house arrest, so I need to head back before it gets too late.”

An uncomfortable thought smacks Junmyeon across the face. “Have you told your parents…” He can’t bring himself to finish the sentence. He’s almost _too_ relieved when Chanyeol shakes his head “no.”

“I haven’t. They’re…they’re great but they’d freak.” Chanyeol fiddles with the brim of his hat. “I wanted to get to know you before they could stick their noses into it.”

“Ah.”

“Have you told your parents?”

Junmyeon laughs, which makes Chanyeol pout again. “No.”

The two of them walk to the metro together, Junmyeon unsure if he went that far to cling to the last warmth of the hoodie or because it makes him feel better to see Chanyeol off. 

“Can I see you tomorrow?” Chanyeol tentatively asks, remembering the flash of Junmyeon’s eyes when he grabbed his arm. 

Junmyeon takes in a deep breath, thoughtfully chewing on his bottom lip in a way that Chanyeol finds distracting. “Give me a day, okay?” He at least offers the kid a small smile, which he returns with his own grin. 

“Okay. I’ll text you.” Chanyeol turns and makes to go down the steps. 

“Wait, your hoodie!” Junmyeon tries to unzip it but forgets the sleeves still cover his hands.

Chanyeol doesn’t even look back as he jogs away. “Keep it!”  
“What? I—no!” Junmyeon squawks, flailing his hands to move the sleeves so he can hurry up and get this damned thing off before—

Chanyeol disappears into the underground. His hands flop uselessly to his sides. 

Well played, kid. Well played. 

 

☓

 

That night, Junmyeon looks at a picture of Jongdae that he hasn’t been able to erase from his phone. The corners of his mouth are naturally curved up and his eyes glitter, giving him a perpetually mischievous look. Something about the man is decidedly feline.

His chest hurts. They’d been together two years. Every time Junmyeon so much as mentioned the red thread, and the possibility that they weren’t actually soul mates, Jongdae would roll his eyes and growl, “Fuck the string, fuck _Akaito_. I. Love. _You_.” That usually led to Jongdae ripping Junmyeon’s shirt off and shoving his pants to his knees so he could show him just how much. 

Junmyeon gulps, turning off his phone. Silence reverberates across his apartment.

 

☓

 

It takes a lot for Chanyeol not to send Junmyeon fifty million texts over the weekend. He craves for any kind of contact. 

Only part of it is because of the red thread. In a book all high school freshman have to read about the _Akaito_ , it describes the phenomenon like having a head-start in a relationship. It doesn’t give you magical feelings, just points out the obvious that you have a very strong connection to this other person. Not many students actually read the book.

Chanyeol is one of them. He’s swimming in fantasies that flutter in his gut and make his heart race. But, he manages to not text Junmyeon until Monday after school, walking the few blocks it takes to get from Quincy High to Harper’s Guitar Store.

< _Hi_. >

Chanyeol’s phone remains quiet as he clocks in, settles next to his coworker behind the main register, and waits for his first student of the day to arrive. A short time later, his smile feels flat as she walks in, her dad carrying the guitar case for her. 

“Hey, how was school, Danah?” Chanyeol asks the girl, doing his best to shake his disappointment as he grabs the guitar case from her father. Danah sighs, adjusting her glasses instead of answering. 

Chanyeol wonders if that asshole hellspawn in the grade above her stole her lunch money again, but doesn’t mention it. Some things the kids say during lessons are given in trust, and he only pulls the parents aside to tell them if it’s really worrying. As annoyed as Chanyeol gets when Danah tells him about being bullied, he knows she’ll figure it out. 

Danah’s dad lovingly puts his hand on top of her head. “See you in forty minutes?” 

The girl nods, then follows Chanyeol through the creaky old building and down the set of stairs that leads to the lesson rooms. It’s a simple white hallway with eight rooms, some only big enough to fit two chairs. The two of them settle into their normal one, Chanyeol’s guitar waiting on a stand for him as he helps Danah crack open her case. 

Danah is eight and reminds Chanyeol a lot of himself when he was younger. She’s chubby, with doughy cheeks that adults like to pinch but kids her age like to make fun of. Her glasses don’t sit right on her nose, and she has an affinity for reptiles. Chanyeol used to _love_ ferrets, but after being constantly made fun of when he was in elementary school he fostered his intense liking for them in secret. 

“So, what happened today?” Chanyeol asks as he lets Danah tune her guitar herself. She has an ear for sound and pitch, but it hasn’t quite coordinated through to her fingers yet. He settles his own guitar on his lap, patiently waiting as she gives a mere shrug. Some days she’s like this; doesn’t talk for the whole session. That’s okay. 

They pick up where they left off the week before. Chanyeol is pleased when it’s obvious that the little girl has been practicing. The room is stuffed with just the two of them, and it smells like dusty carpet, but there’s something secure and safe about these sessions. Chanyeol has felt the same way about it since he was little, taking lessons from Mr. Lim in this hall. He hopes Danah feels it too. 

By the end of the forty minutes as they leave the room, Danah is excited enough about her progress to tell Chanyeol that the asshole hellspawn didn’t take her lunch money, but called her a pig during recess. Unimaginative, even for a fourth grader. 

Chanyeol filters through replies in his mind, things he knows are terrible like “But pigs are delicious!” or “Well pigs eat trash so you should’ve just taken a bite out of her arm.” Instead, he settles for what he usually does. Chanyeol crouches so they’re eye-level, Danah’s cheeks tinging pink, and he says with as much seriousness as he can muster, “You’re beautiful.”

She adjusts her glasses again, barely able to contain her shy smile as she turns on her heel and marches up the stairs. Chanyeol carries her guitar up, handing it over to her father who’s waiting in one of the chairs by the banjo section. Danah’s dad looks at his daughter, then gives Chanyeol an appreciative expression. 

“Danah did really well today,” Chanyeol says as the three of them walk to the door. “I can tell she’s been practicing. I gave her something a little harder to work on for this week.” He turns to Danah. “Just remember it’s going to be kind of frustrating at first, but keep working on it, okay?”

She nods as her father shakes Chanyeol’s hand, then the two of them leave Harper’s. Chanyeol watches them walk down the sidewalk hand-in-hand, Danah having to take two steps for every one of his strides. 

He hopes he said the right thing to her. He hopes that someday Danah will give the asshole hellspawn a good kick in the shins. 

“Hey Yeol,” his coworker calls from behind the counter, an older man who wears a plaid shirt and golf cap every day. “Your phone made that ‘ _zzzz_ ’ noise a little bit ago. That uh, what do you guys call it?” 

“Texting.” Chanyeol broadly smiles and grabs his phone where he left it behind the register. 

< _Hello. I already know what you’re going to ask. I have to stay at work late tonight and tomorrow, but Wednesday I’m done at five._ >

< _Want to go for another walk?_ >

This time, it only takes another minute before Junmyeon replies. < _Yes. >_

 

☓

 

It’s Baekhyun who helps him do the math. He punches the numbers into his phone's calculator as Chanyeol reads from the metro's website. They try daily rates, then weekly, then monthly, but no matter which way they spin it, Chanyeol is going to be paying almost one-hundred dollars a month in metro fare if he continues going to see Junmyeon a couple times every week. 

"Except," Baekhyun says, tilting his head as he gets an idea. "Metro passes are discounted for students who go to State. It'd only be about seventy, eighty dollars."

"That's great, but I'm technically not a student at State until next fall." Chanyeol flops on his bed, his back squishing the wrappers of all the snacks he and Baekhyun had hoarded up to his room after dinner. 

He could try and pick up more work at Harper's, but he already spends almost twenty hours a week there as it is. Adding that on top of school would make it nearly impossible to have time to go see Junmyeon in the first place. 

"Yeah, but Yura's a student."

Chanyeol tilts his head up to look at Baekhyun, recognizing a devious tone in his voice.

"I'm listening."

On Wednesday, Chanyeol clocks out of his shift a little early to be able to meet Junmyeon at the park at six. This time Mrs. Lim has supplied him with a couple pounds of dumplings and some disgusting vitamin drink. It takes a lot of self-restraint to leave them in his bag on the hour-long metro ride, but it's worth it when he sees Junmyeon waiting for him on the bench. 

This time Junmyeon is wearing a jacket, one of those fancy button-up numbers that has sharp lapels. It’s black, and the contrast it holds against his pretty skin and dark hair is striking. Chanyeol is wearing another hoodie. 

The boy swings off his backpack and flops to the bench, making Junmyeon jump in his seat as he’s jerked out of his thoughts. Before they can properly greet each other, Chanyeol opens the container of dumplings, sits it between the two of them on the bench, and stuffs one into his mouth. They’ve gone cold, but they’re still delicious. 

“Mrs. Lim, you’ve done it again!” Chanyeol crows, his voice echoing through the park. Junmyeon shushes him but doesn’t decline when Chanyeol offers him the container. The older man thought that maybe he’d take him out to eat tonight, somewhere low-key, but this works just as well. 

They talk as they eat. Chanyeol asks Junmyeon how his day went, and when Junmyeon curtly replies, “Fine,” Chanyeol grabs the container of dumplings and holds it out of his reach until he gives a better answer. Junmyeon grumpily launches into what he thinks is a long, boring description of his day, but Chanyeol intently listens as he puts the dumplings back down, his brow folding together with concentration. Neither of them mention the borrowed sweatshirt: Junmyeon flustered that he forgot it at home and Chanyeol pleased that he still has it.

When the container is empty, they walk. The trees that were bursting with red, yellow, and orange are now becoming bare. It’s easy to lose track of time as they weave through the sidewalk, disappearing from the city.

The two of them make it once around the park, enjoying a pleasant silence by the second loop. Then Chanyeol asks Junmyeon, seemingly out of nowhere, “What are you supposed to tell a girl who is upset because someone called her a pig?”

Junmyeon blinks in succession, wondering where the hell that came from. He can’t gather his thoughts quick enough and teasingly says, “A girl? Who is she, a special secret someone?” 

“Stop it. She’s like, ten years younger than me. That’s gross.”

Junmyeon gives Chanyeol a pointed look. 

“Not the same.” Chanyeol glares. He sighs, kicking at a cluster of fallen leaves as they pass. “I give her guitar lessons on Mondays. She’s eight years old and some dickwad kid in the grade above her is bullying her.”

“Should you be calling a nine year-old a dickwad?”

“Well she _is_ ,” Chanyeol grumbles. “But this girl, I didn’t know what to say to help her. So I just kind of fumbled and said something lame.”

“What did you say?” Junmyeon has lost the edge of teasing now, finding himself slightly captivated by how serious Chanyeol is.

“I told her she was beautiful. That’s it. I went ‘You’re beautiful’ and she blushed and smiled because I’m an older handsome guitar god, but it didn’t…it didn’t feel good enough.” 

Junmyeon nudges Chanyeol with his elbow. “It’s been bothering you since then?” 

Chanyeol nods. 

“I think you said the right thing,” Junmyeon says, “I mean, I’m no expert with little kids, but there’s no magic words you can say to make things better for her. It must be tough, but you can’t personally go to the elementary school and threaten a nine year-old.”

“I’ve thought about it,” Chanyeol replies, but his small smile says otherwise. 

“Just give her affirmation. She’ll figure it out.” Junmyeon considers mentioning that he’s doing the same thing right now, affirming Chanyeol, but it seems a little too condescending even for him. 

“Yeah. I guess.” Chanyeol exhales through his nose, then checks the time on his phone. “Crap. I have to head out.”

“You only got here a little more than half an hour ago.” Junmyeon backtracks. Why did he say that? This means he can go home now, finish the report he left in his car before coming to the park, then watch his current drama. “I mean, okay.”

Chanyeol still looks apologetic. “I have to stop by State to see my sister before I go home. She’s on a tight schedule because finals are in a couple weeks, so there's kind of a small window to get to her. I wish I could stay longer, but at least I got to see you today.”

Junmyeon tries and fails to ignore how sweet that sounded. It’s nice, when someone wants to see you. He wonders how he forgot that so quick after only a couple weeks. 

“Okay, but at least take this.” Junmyeon takes out his wallet, fishing out some bills as Chanyeol takes a big step away.

“No.”

“Come on, by the time you get in and out of the university, it’ll be late, so just take a cab from there—”

“No. I’ll be fine.” Chanyeol leaves no room to argue as he turns and sprints away from Junmyeon. “See you later! I’ll text you!”

Junmyeon is left there with his hand extended into the air, staring as the kid disappears between the trees. He should be annoyed but can’t help and chuckle at the way Chanyeol looks like a drunk giraffe when he runs.

 

☓

 

Baekhyun can't stop staring at Chanyeol. 

" _You're doing it again_ ," Chanyeol snaps at him. Baekhyun blinks and vigorously shakes his head as the two of them climb off the bus. This whole thing had been his idea, but putting it into action left him a little disconcerted. 

"Sorry," Baekhyun mumbles, looking anywhere but his friend as they try to locate the Metro Office. 

"And now you're blushing." Chanyeol exasperatedly throws his hands in the air before reaching back down to adjust his skirt. He doesn't know how girls manage to wear these things without pulling at it every five seconds. 

"I'm blushing because I'm embarrassed for you," Baekhyun whispers. 

"No. You're blushing because you think I'm sexy. You pervert. Probably want me to drop something and bend over to pick it up so you can catch a glance up my skirt." 

"You're wearing leggings," Baekhyun says, "I couldn't see anything even if I wanted to _which I most definitely do not_."

The problem is that when dressed in drag, Chanyeol looks almost exactly like Yura. Ever since Baekhyun went through puberty and couldn’t help but notice things about his friend’s older sister, like her ass and her breasts and her long legs, she’s been the fodder of his fantasies. His brain is dizzy and confused seeing Chanyeol like this. 

“Whatever.” Chanyeol tries to sassily flip his hair, but his fingers get caught in the black wig. Baekhyun borrowed it from the theater department this morning. It looks relatively realistic, long and bouncy where it curls past his shoulders. Their friendship reached a new peak—or low—as Baekhyun helped Chanyeol put it on after school, combing the hairs straight before placing a bow headband on top. They squabbled about technique as Baekhyun put some makeup on Chanyeol, going off of instructions Yura scribbled down for them. 

Chanyeol’s sister had been all-too-happy to participate in Baekhyun’s plan. She and Chanyeol are close—he’d called her about the red thread the night it happened, and has been keeping her updated. As worried as she is, she still holds some kind of faith in her little brother that their parents have long foregone. 

Plus, she likes it when Chanyeol does stupid shit that she gets to make fun of. 

Chanyeol is wearing a pink State hoodie that’s baggy on Yura but stretches snug across his shoulders. Since none of her pants fit him, he sports black sparkly leggings that are too tight on his junk—which he supposes is a good thing, keeping anything from poking too noticeably against the front of his denim skirt. 

The two of them find the Metro Office, Chanyeol insisting that Baekhyun hold the door open for him, “—ladies first, asshole,” then go inside. 

Baekhyun experiences a comforting moment as Chanyeol walks ahead of him. They may look a lot alike in the face, but Chanyeol's bow-legged gait and slouching shoulders gave him an orangutan vibe that Yura most definitely does not have.

The woman behind the main desk does a double-take at the huge girl who lumbers past the empty cue, straight up to her. “Hello, how may I help you?”

Chanyeol pulls out Yura’s Student ID, along with her driver’s license, and puts them on the desk. After this he has to head straight to State to give them back. He also promised Yura that by helping, she’d get to take a picture of him all done up and use it for future blackmailing purposes. Not that Chanyeol really minds. He thinks he looks kind of hot, himself. 

“I need to start up a monthly Student Plus Metro Card.” Chanyeol’s best attempt at a girl voice startles the woman. He feels himself start to sweat beneath the wig as she adjusts her glasses, looking between him and the driver’s license. 

_How unfortunate for the girl,_ she thinks, _that such a pretty face ended up on such an awkward body_. 

“Perfect.” She smiles. “Do you have your bank account information to set up automatic payments?”  
“Yes,” Chanyeol replies, pulling it up on the screen of his phone before handing it over. 

After all that planning and hard work, everything is finished in about ten minutes. Chanyeol walks out of the Metro Office with a new card in his grasp: only seventy dollars a month. As they walk to the nearest metro entrance, he wraps an arm around Baekhyun and gives him a sloppy kiss on the cheek, making him yelp. 

“You are a genius,” Chanyeol fondly says as Baekhyun tries to wiggle out of his grip. Another thing Chanyeol has that Yura definitely doesn’t is chin stubble and inhuman strength. 

“Couldn’t you thank me in a normal way? Like by giving me money?” Baekhyun squishes his eyes shut as Chanyeol goes in for another kiss. 

“I’m taking you with me to go see Yura, aren’t I?” Chanyeol knowingly asks, back to speaking in his unsettlingly deep voice. 

That shuts Baekhyun up.

 

☓

 

Junmyeon thinks there may be something criminal about the way he just ordered himself a new vibrator online and is now Googling “gifts for eighteen year-olds.” He fully expects someone to kick the door to his apartment down any moment now and make a citizen’s arrest. He would go willingly. 

Chanyeol texted him a couple days ago, reminding him that his birthday was on the 27th of this month and that he was going to be “legal.” It was this Saturday, four days away. Junmyeon had been going back and forth on the idea of getting him a present— _Akaito_ or not, they’d only known each other for about two weeks. But Chanyeol was sort of puppy-like and he knew that the kid would be happy with even a small gift. 

Junmyeon clicks on one of the top websites that come up for his search, seeing that the TRENDING NOW gifts are things like Reasons I Love You Stones, a Custom Photo With Poem Canvas, and Giant Gummy Bear Lamps. Not exactly what he was thinking. 

He closes his eyes to focus, trying to remember what he needed when he was that age.

Eighteen was the year he stopped shuttling between his mom and dad's houses and moved in with a friend's family for the remainder of high school. Eighteen was when he got his first and last tattoo: an ugly black feather on the inside of his right bicep that was supposed to symbolize flight and freedom, independence. It wasn't until a couple years later when he realized all his tattoo represented was how much of a tool he used to be. 

Looking back, Junmyeon felt so _old_ his senior year of high school. He'd charged headfirst into a new life, applying for college, working the graveyard shift at a gas station and going to school during the day, saving all of his money for the upcoming threat of tuition and dorm fees. 

It's hard for him to believe that his eighteen is the same as Chanyeol's. He doesn't like to think about Chanyeol doing the things he did, like walking home from work in the pitch black of four in the morning, or hooking up with anyone who showed even a flash of wanting him, needing him.

_Ugh_. Now Junmyeon feels anxious thinking about it. He presses his laptop shut and goes to his room to change into pajamas. 

Eighteen was a year of change, of allowing himself to hurtle forward without much of an idea what he was really doing. It was sloppy and wild and he probably only slept about ten hours a week. He did a lot of stupid shit and is lucky none of the repercussions were ever that great. 

And then he met his first serious boyfriend, just before he turned nineteen. He fell in love. Had security for the first time and eventually settled into the person he would become from then until now. It just took a lot for him to get there.

Feeling a little bit better in his sweats, Junmyeon pours himself a glass of wine, heats up leftover spaghetti, then settles in front of the widescreen TV in his living room. He has to push clothes and papers aside, things always have a way of building up around here. 

Thinking about being that age has opened an unwanted floodgate of thoughts, and he makes a mental note to call his mother, then father, later tonight. He's let too much time pass again. 

He forgot he put his phone into the pocket of his pajama pants until it buzzes, making him almost choke on his wine. He carefully sets the glass down on the coffee table, right next to Jongdae's old mug, then looks at his phone. 

Chanyeol.  < _Hey, did you know that North by Northwest is going to be on TV tonight? They're running some kind of special. >_

Junmyeon turns on his television and searches the title, finding the channel within an instant. 

He sends back, < _Like a Hitchcock special_? >

< _No, Cary Grant_. >

Junmyeon takes a sloppy bite of spaghetti, taking full advantage of his singledom as he slurps it into his mouth. _Charade_ is on the screen right now, Audrey Hepburn blinking her huge innocent eyes at a suave Cary Grant. 

"You're in for a big surprise, Regina Lampert," Junmyeon warns her, then texts Chanyeol. < _Thanks. I now know what I'm doing for the rest of the night. >_

_ <Are you watching right now?>_

_ <Yes._>

< _Me too! I've never seen Charade before_. >

Junmyeon smiles, taking another huge bite of his food then an equally large swig of wine. < _You're in for a big surprise, Park Chanyeol_. >

That night, Chanyeol fell asleep on his television's remote. The next morning, it leaves an imprint of buttons against his cheek that his mother pokes and laughs at when he arrives in the kitchen. He still hasn’t opened his eyes all the way.

"Look, honey," she says to Mr. Park, holding Chanyeol's face and turning it toward her husband where he stands behind the stove, "See what a handsome son we've raised?"

His dad's face contorts as he tries not to smile. Unsuccessfully. "Ah, the fruit of our loins."

"Gross," Chanyeol says, allowing his mom to lovingly squeeze his cheeks before he pulls away. "No one wants to hear about your loins."

Chanyeol sits at the table as his dad places eggs, toast, and orange juice in front of him. Mr. Park makes breakfast every weekday, sharing a morning cup of coffee with Mrs. Park as she puts together his lunch for work. Some mornings they're dead quiet, clunking through the cupboards and moving through the small space in synchrony, but most mornings Chanyeol wakes up to hear them chattering and giggling like two schoolchildren. During the busy week, it's the only time they get to really see each other. 

"You were up pretty late last night, sweetheart," his mom says, grabbing her mug of steaming coffee and sitting beside him at the table. She's short and lithe, like Yura, but Chanyeol still feels small in her presence. "I woke up around one last night and heard your TV on."

"There was a Cary Grant special," Chanyeol answers through a mouthful of eggs. He knows he won't get in trouble for this one; his dad was the one who raised him and Yura on classic movies. Mr. Park grunts his approval after taking a bite of toast. 

"Still, you're a busy boy." Mrs. Park brushes Chanyeol's disarrayed hair away from his forehead. "You need your sleep."

"Special circumstance." Chanyeol shrugs. A _very_ special circumstance. By some fluke, Junmyeon forgot he was trying to keep Chanyeol at an arm's length, and they texted each other through three movies until they fell asleep. Junmyeon had even uncharacteristically typed " _Hahahahaha_ " as Chanyeol freaked out at the ending of _Charade_. If Chanyeol pretended, it was almost as good as having Junmyeon right next to him, the two of them commenting back and forth about the genius of _North by Northwest._

"Hey," Mr. Park interrupts, putting the carton of eggs back into the refrigerator, "By the way, have you decided what we're doing for your birthday this Saturday?"

"The guys are taking me to play paintball in the morning, but after that, I thought we could just go to lunch or something. Maybe a movie? Yura told me to go see her on Saturday night, she wants to take me out to buy porn and cigarettes and a lottery ticket," Chanyeol says. 

Mrs. Park sighs. "Really? Do you have to go and do all that with her?"

"I thought that's what adults do."

"You're on track, for the most part. But you missed gambling," his dad says, a twinkle in his eye that is not unlike the one that can be found in Chanyeol's. For the most part, he takes after his dad. Mr. Park is tall and goofy, with a hidden handsomness that gets him out of speeding tickets and making the bed when Mrs. Park asks.

"Ah, see mom?" Chanyeol says, putting an arm around her and giving her a squeeze. "I have so much to learn in such little time. Yura's just helping me along."

It's easy to tell she's annoyed, but his mom clutches onto any kind of affection Chanyeol gives. She's gotten sort of weepy ever since his senior year began, constantly reminiscing because her baby is all grown up. 

"Yeah, yeah," her voice comes out flat, though. "But when you two get arrested for getting into trouble doing unsavory things, I'm not coming to bail you out." 

"Dad? Can I count on you?" Chanyeol asks. Mr. Park shakes his head. 

"Are you kidding me? Your mom and I haven't had the house to ourselves in months. You spending a couple nights in jail might just be the best thing to happen to us." Mr. Park leans across the table, Chanyeol diverting his eyes as his parents kiss. 

He takes that as his cue to leave, shoving the last of his toast in his mouth before running to finish getting ready. By the time he reaches the front door, his mom is adjusting his dad's tie, mumbling something to him with a small smile before she gives it a tug. 

The two of them became _Akaito_ almost twenty-five years ago. It didn't mean a lot to Chanyeol before—almost everyone's parents he knows are tied by the red thread—but now that he’s met Junmyeon, every angle of his mom and dad’s relationship takes on a new light. 

As he begins the walk to school, he imagines straightening Junmyeon’s tie before he goes to work, and Junmyeon giving him the same fond expression. Maybe Junmyeon hooks his fingers into Chanyeol’s belt, pulling him closer. Their breath hits each other’s faces, and even though Junmyeon is running late and Chanyeol has to get to class, they take their time tilting their faces until their lips brush. Once. Twice. Then Junmyeon wraps his arms around Chanyeol’s neck and pulls them flush together. And then—

Someone grabs the hood of his sweatshirt and jerks him back, breaking his daydream. He looks over his shoulder to see Baekhyun standing behind him, looking ruffled, sleepy, and peeved. He’s definitely not a morning person. 

“You couldn’t wait two minutes for me?” he crossly asks, giving Chanyeol’s hood another good yank before walking past him. He lives a couple houses down from the Parks. The two of them meet in front of Chanyeol’s house every day before school, then walk together. 

“Sorry,” Chanyeol says, trying to revive the feeling his daydream gave him but falling flat. “I was thinking about something. Like if Junmyeon—”

Baekhyun dismissively shakes his hand at Chanyeol, pulling a beanie over his bed hair with the other. “Spare me. I don’t want to hear about your disgusting sex fantasies with that old man.” 

Chanyeol wraps an arm around Baekhyun’s shoulders. What he’d been thinking of had been relatively innocent, but his friend doesn’t need to know that. “For your information, I was getting to the good part. His tongue had just—”

“ _Don’t touch me_.” Baekhyun ducks out from his grip. “And if you’re going to pop a boner on our way to school, you have to walk at least twenty—no, fifty feet behind me.”

“Fine.” Chanyeol pauses, lets Baekhyun walk ahead of him. He’s teasing by this point, but the shorter one doesn’t seem to get the joke. “But just so you know, it’s about to get real freaky in my head.”

“I don’t want to hear!” Baekhyun claps his fingers over his ears and starts walking faster, Chanyeol laughing behind him the rest of the way to school. 

 

☓

 

“A body pillow shaped like a slice of bacon?” Minseok incredulously asks, leaning against the opening of Junmyeon’s cubicle. He shakes his head no. Junmyeon cringes, clicking out of the window on his computer that is open to a novelty gift shop. Out of panic to get Chanyeol the right birthday present, he’s almost bought some pretty weird stuff these past couple days. 

“I don’t know. I want to get him something, but I don’t want it to be too big. Or expensive. But it can’t be cheap, either. It has to have value but not to the point of being sentimental. Something that won’t last him for a long time, but not something he only gets one use out of.”

Minseok takes a sip of his coffee, cooly regarding Junmyeon. “How many hours of sleep have you lost over this?”

“Not many. A few. A lot,” Junmyeon admits. He drags his fingers through his hair, wrecking the way he’d styled it this morning.

“Let’s look at this at a new angle. Why do you want to get him a gift in the first place?”

Junmyeon pretends to think even though he already knows the answer. “Because all things considered, he’s kind of a cool kid, and I know he’d really like to receive something from me on his birthday. It would,” he hesitates, thinking _make him happy_ , as he says, “be a nice gesture.”

“You’re sure slaving over something that would be ‘a nice gesture,’” Minseok mimics Junmyeon, who flushes with embarrassment and thinks _fuck it_ , navigating back to the bacon pillow page on his computer. Minseok has to actually put his hand over Junmyeon’s on the mouse to stop him from hitting “buy.” “That’s not a bad thing, Junmyeon. It shows you care.”

“But I shouldn’t care. I don’t want to care.”

Minseok shrugs his thin shoulders, tilting his coffee around in his cup. “That’s not how it works. I think that if Chanyeol knew how much effort you were putting into this, that would feel even better than a gift to him.”

“But he’s never going to find out, because everyone on the Chanyeol’s Birthday Present Committee is sworn to secrecy under penalty of death,” Junmyeon threatens, to which Minseok chuckles. 

“I don’t remember signing any committee paperwork when I agreed to help you out. Ten minutes ago.”

“Yeah. I went about the order of this all wrong,” Junmyeon says. He leans back in his chair, all of his energy gone and it’s not even lunch yet.

“Stop beating yourself up.” Minseok begins shuffling out of Junmyeon’s cubicle. “Keep it simple. What I’ve seen of Chanyeol, he seems like someone who’s easily pleased. Maybe that’s why you’re each other’s _Akaito_ : you struggle with giving gifts and he’s happy you thought of him in the first place. I bet that even if you got him that stupid pillow, he’d treasure it for the rest of his life.”

“Then I’ll just get him that pillow.”

“You’re missing my point. That pillow is terrible, you’re better than that,” Minseok admonishes, then disappears into his own cubicle. 

Junmyeon pouts in his chair. He grabs the bottle of juice he bought from one of the vending machines this morning. Takes a sip then pauses, his eyes crossing as he looks at the bottle at his lips.

He may have an idea. 

 

☓

 

Chanyeol hasn’t gotten a birthday text from Junmyeon. Not like the dismay of his _Akaito_ ’s lack of interest does anything to hinder his paintball skills. 

“You’re fucking ten feet tall and can’t walk five steps without tripping, how has no one shot you yet?” Jongin snarls, pissed to the point of whipping off his helmet even though he’s still on the course. He throws a hissy fit every time he’s eliminated. Chanyeol happily raises his paintball gun and shoots Jongin on his thigh again, right above the hit he made just a moment ago. 

“ _Boop_.” Chanyeol grins. The protective gloves that the paintball facility supplies are thick and sometimes hard to move in, but Jongin does a pretty good job of flipping Chanyeol off. 

“Next round, Park,” Jongin darkly promises before putting his helmet back on and trudging to the eliminated area. The two of them are the ones who take paintball the most serious out of their group of friends, meaning they’re never allowed to be on the same team. The others are pretty sure that if combined, their determination and merciless tendencies would ruin the fun of their standing birthday tradition. 

Baekhyun, Chanyeol, Sehun, Jongin, and Kyungsoo come to the paintball facility four times a year. They usually gather some other friends for cushioning the teams, then proceed to shoot the shit out of each other. 

It started their freshman year, when it was just Chanyeol and Baekhyun. Then Jongin crashed into Chanyeol’s life, sticking his tongue down his throat and groping him at a party. They dated for three weeks, their hormones drowning out the fact that they were a terrible couple. As messy and childish as their breakup was, Jongin stuck around after that. 

In tenth grade, Jongin started fooling around with Sehun, who slowly integrated into their group even after the other moved on. The two of them still enjoy the random tumble together in the janitor’s closet, but it’s mostly sloppy handjobs as they insult each other’s technique. Then later that year, Jongin tried and failed (and failed, and failed, and failed a fourth time) to convince Kyungsoo to go out with him. All the time spent getting Kyungsoo to sit with them at lunch and hang out after school had turned him into a close friend. 

So the five of them love each other. 

But they also have a lot of aggressions to take out through paintball. 

“Did you get him?” Baekhyun calls to Chanyeol, peering at him from behind a tree. 

“Of course!” Chanyeol hears someone clunking behind a wooden plank barrier to his right, and manages to duck behind a cluster of dented trash cans just as Kyungsoo peeks out to send a barrage of paint balls at him. He continues shooting even after Chanyeol is out of sight. Kyungsoo seems to have a lot more aggressions than usual today. 

Chanyeol thrives on the exhilaration, feeling badass even though Jongin’s observation about him constantly tripping isn’t an exaggeration. 

He's closer to where Baekhyun's hiding behind the tree now, the two of them looking at each other as Chanyeol begins flapping and flailing his hands to communicate their next move without having to talk. He's seen them do it in movies all the time. 

It feels cool and legit until Baekhyun rolls his eyes and says, "Just say it out loud, jackass."

Chanyeol sighs. "You run to the right and distract Kyungsoo, then I'll dodge out of the cans and try to catch him by surprise behind that plank."

"Why am I always the bait?"

"Because you're cute?"

"How does that make sense?"

"It doesn't. I thought a little flattery would make you shut up and do it without being a baby."

Baekhyun looks like he's putting serious consideration into shooting his own teammate. It wouldn't be the first time that happened to Chanyeol. Definitely not the last. 

"Ugh, only because it's your birthday," Baekhyun grumbles before he launches himself our from behind the tree trunk. Both of them know he would have done it anyway, but it makes him feel better to say. 

Kyungsoo is trigger happy and easily falls for the bait. He shoots with tenacity as Baekhyun scrambles between trees. Kyungsoo lands a hit on his shoulder, darkly chuckling in that demonic way that sometimes scares the others. Just then, he sees a blur move out of the corner of his eye and whips around, blindly shooting. The shots go right over Chanyeol, who stumbled over an exposed tree root and fell over. He contorts on the ground and steadies his gun, then with one steady _thwunk_ , nails Kyungsoo's stomach with a paintball. 

Chanyeol pumps his fist into the air as Baekhyun and Kyungsoo walk over to him. 

"How does he do that?" Kyungsoo asks. Baekhyun shrugs, always caught between being fond and disgusted of his best friend. 

"Skill," Chanyeol answers. They ignore him. 

"It's like some weird kind of evolution where instead of being killed off, he's learned to turn his klutziness into a tool of survival," Baekhyun says, toeing his foot against Chanyeol's side.

"Freak of nature," Kyungsoo agrees, then he and Baekhyun leave Chanyeol laying on the course floor. Chanyeol rolls to his back, flipping up the visor of his helmet so he can look up at the sunlight breaking through the treetops. He can feel the adrenaline draining from his chest as the silence of the course replaces it. 

He really, really wishes Junmyeon would text him. 

 

☓

 

Later that night, Chanyeol has a backpack full of discount porn, a carton of cigarettes, a plastic-wrapped cigar, and ten different lottery tickets that are all duds. Strangely enough, with the added weight of all that shit, he doesn't feel any different. When he says that to Yura after she slides the glass door to her apartment shut, she laughs and hands him a beer. 

"What? Did you really think that turning eighteen is some magic transformation?" she asks. 

They're sitting on the small balcony attached to her living room. Yura’s three roommates are inside, chattering over some trashy reality show that’s blaring on the TV. The night is cold, snapping against Chanyeol’s bare nose and cheeks, but he prefers it to being on the couch next to one of them as they all wait for the cupcakes to cool. He sheathes his hands with the sleeves of his sweatshirt and uses them like cooking mittens to hold on to his icy beer.

"Not exactly," he mumbles, taking a sip. At least drinking beer makes him feel older, even though it backfires on him as the fizz tickles the back of his throat and makes his eyes water.

"You're always like this," Yura says. The cheap lawn chair creaks beneath her weight as she crosses her legs. "You get these big expectations of how things are supposed to be, and are always disappointed when they turn out differently."

"Like when?” Chanyeol challenges.

"Bypassing the obvious example of how you thought you could buy adulthood out of a skeazy convenience store—”

"Hey, you were the one who wanted to take me."

"Because it's campy—a tradition. Fun times for the Park siblings. _You_ put all of the extra meaning behind it."

"Okay okay," Chanyeol waves his hand at her, "When else have I done that?"

Yura takes a long swig of her beer then sets it down with a clink. “The time you turned sixteen and got a driver’s license. Do you remember when it arrived in the mail? You ripped the envelope open with this huge grin on your face, then two minutes later you were frowning, and went—” Yura deepens her voice to mimic him. “—‘Is this it?’”

“Okay, so I may have thought that at the very least, a beam of light from the heavens should have fallen on my shoulders. Or maybe a car should have fallen from the heavens. Not on my shoulders, but in the driveway.”

“And I know you forbid me from mentioning it ever again, but there was a certain piercing—”

“Oh, no!”

“—that a certain _someone_ got his freshman year—”

“Yura. Stop.”

“—because all the popular guys and boy banders had one and he was convinced that if he could just punch a sparkly rock through his ear—” Yura dramatically waves her arms, getting into it. Her eyes glitter in a way that could be considered evil. 

Chanyeol abruptly stands up, swinging one of his legs over the railing of the balcony. “I’m going to do it, I’ll jump if you don’t stop.”

Yura’s roommates curiously peer through the glass door at them. The Parks are not quiet people. 

“—that everyone would forget how much of a dork he was and he’d transform into a sex god—”

Chanyeol clenches his eyes shut as unwanted memories sprint past. Not only were his Dobby ears incredibly unfit for jewelry, but he ended up getting a terrible infection three weeks into the piercing. Up until the bitter last moment of his mom forcibly removing the stud, he thought he looked sexy. It wasn’t until he looked back, a year later, shuffling through the mountain of selfies he’d taken during that time, when he saw how horrible it looked. 

“—when in actuality it made him look like the _biggest loser there ever was_!”

“No,” Chanyeol whines, bringing both of his feet back to the porch and flopping bonelessly into his seat. “I don’t want any more examples. I get it.”

Yura grins, nudging Chanyeol’s foot with her own. “Hey. Don’t pout.”

“I just—” Chanyeol scrunches his nose, looking up at the smoggy night sky. It’s a burnt shade of maroon, the stars impossible to see because of the city lights. “I want being eighteen to change things. I don’t even feel a bit different.”

Yura thoughtfully watches her little brother as he takes another swallow of beer. He doesn’t know it, but every time he drinks, his face slightly scrunches up at the taste.

“Dweeb, you’ve been eighteen since what, this morning? It _will_ change things,” Yura says, “You’re on the brink of everything—graduation, moving out, college. Take it from me, enjoy the familiarity you have right now, because it doesn’t last and you’ll miss it when it’s gone.”

Chanyeol picks at the label of his bottle, deciding not to tell Yura about being disappointed that Junmyeon hasn’t reached out to him today. His _Akaito_ ’s biggest qualm with being tied to him is his age, so even a little text acknowledging his new adulthood would have been nice. Not even that, but a text in general would at least show that he flashed through Junmyeon’s mind at some point today. He wants so badly for Junmyeon to think of him.

“Hey,” Yura says, surprisingly soft. She knows who Chanyeol is thinking about, knows why he’s in such a rush for things to change. “Eighteen is the _beginning_ , okay? Take it a day at a time. You can’t just jump ahead in the story to get to what you think the good parts are going to be. Because, I don’t know, you might end up skimming over perfect moments like this. Shitty beer, cold wind, the _best_ company. It’s small, but it’s good. This is exactly where I want to be right now.”

Chanyeol stares at his big sister, eyes wide and impressed until he says, “Jesus, you comparative literature majors really think you’re something special, don’t you?”

“I’m being fucking poetic, you asshole.” Yura whacks the back of his head, sending his snapback askew. Chanyeol laughs as he tries to fend off her second hit, always getting a little too much pleasure out of how easy it is to annoy his big sister. Picking on her is better than admitting that she may have a point. 

Once Yura stops trying to gouge Chanyeol’s eyes out with her sparkly pink nails, the two of them make their way back inside. Chanyeol may not like Yura’s roommates that much, but he’s more than happy to soak up their attention as they bathe him in “Happy Birthday!” and homemade cupcakes. The girls wash the food down with shots of cheap vodka, pre-gaming for a party getting started down the hall. When one of them hands Chanyeol a shot, Yura takes it right out of his grip and downs it herself. 

“You can’t go home smelling like booze, Mom would kill me,” she gurgles, eye twitching as she thunks the glass back on the kitchen counter. She turns and nudges her friend. “Burnett’s is piss. Pour me another.”

Chanyeol manages to sneak two shots behind Yura’s back with the assistance of her roommates. By the time one of them is pouring a third, giggling at the sneaky game and spilling some, Chanyeol glances at his phone and sees he somehow missed a text. 

< _Happy birthday._ >

Junmyeon. Junmyeon Junmyeon Junmyeon Junmyeon. It’s enough to make him turn his back on the free handout, striding outside to the balcony. He wonders if he should wait before texting Junmyeon back, make him suffer the same way that he did today, but it doesn’t last long. 

< _Thanks, almost missed it_. >

Back at his apartment, Junmyeon grimaces. It’s almost eleven o’clock. Maybe his idea of texting Chanyeol at night to make it seem nonchalant was a bad idea. To make up for it, he writes back, < _I wouldn’t forget. What are you up to_? >

< _I’m at State with my sister. She took me out to buy porn and cigarettes today, and her roommates made me cupcakes_. >

State? The university is only about ten, fifteen minutes of a drive away. He looks at the wrapped present sitting on his coffee table. It had taken him four different stores until he found the right brand.

< _Porn and cupcakes, do you celebrate every birthday like that?_ > Junmyeon texts. 

< _Yes_. _Tradition since my preschool days_. _Except they used to take it light on the cupcakes, my parents were worried about early onset diabetes. The porn has been the same._ >

Junmyeon smiles, settling into the couch. He can’t stop thinking about what Minseok said yesterday, about how Chanyeol would be happy with even the smallest of gestures. It seems like everything is staring him in the face, the present just a foot away, the university within quick driving distance, the boy who was probably disappointed he texted him so late. 

“No, it’s too much,” Junmyeon mumbles to himself. He needs to pace these things. A little disappointment would be good for Chanyeol. Just as he’s nodding in self-agreement, he finds himself texting. < _I have a present for you. It’s nothing big. But since you’re so close, I guess I could bring it to you so you can get it on your actual birthday. Do you want it tonight_? >

It’s almost comical how fast Chanyeol texts him an address instead of a response.

Twenty minutes later, Junmyeon has pulled his car up to the back of a crappy apartment complex. He can hear muffled music thrumming from all directions. Kids are crowded on almost every balcony, the pungent smell of sweet smoke blending with ashy cigarettes. The sections are close enough for them to toss bottles back and forth, laughing like it isn’t a terrible safety hazard for people who may be passing below. 

_Ah, college_ , Junmyeon thinks, wrinkling his nose. He texts Chanyeol and tells him that he arrived.

Only a minute goes by before Junmyeon sees Chanyeol passing beneath the streetlamps outside, knowing the darkened silhouette is his by the snapback and hoodie. Junmyeon takes a deep breath. His elbows are sweating. Why are his elbows sweating over something as simple as this? He didn’t even know elbows _could_ sweat.

Chanyeol spots and walks up to his car, playfully knocking on the passenger window and waving before Junmyeon unlocks the door. The kid swings inside. 

Junmyeon realizes this is a terrible idea. The worst one he’s ever had. Because Chanyeol is so big, he fills up the space of the car and makes Junmyeon feel like there’s hardly any distance between the two of them. It’s too intimate, illuminated only from the lights on his dashboard, cornered off from the rest of the world. 

Chanyeol does not seem to be thinking the same thing. He runs his hands reverently over the leather seats, blinking with amazement as he fiddles with the hi-tech gizmos on the dash. Junmyeon would knock his hands away from the setup, but is too happy that Chanyeol’s attention isn’t focused solely on him. 

“I can’t believe you have a _car_ ,” Chanyeol says, breathing the word like it’s holy. Junmyeon fidgets and slightly turns so his back is against the driver’s side door, fighting for one more inch of distance. 

“I told you before that I didn’t take the bus or metro, how did you think I got back and forth to work?” Junmyeon asks. 

"A white steed.” Chanyeol fiddles with the screen to bring up a new radio station. Junmyeon feels a little proud at his answer, until Chanyeol adds, "Or a broomstick."

“I think it’s a good thing to remember that you shouldn’t insult someone who’s about to give you a present,” Junmyeon flatly says. Chanyeol straightens, his expression brightening. He cups his hands together and holds them out.

“Have I ever told you how handsome and smart you are?” Chanyeol asks, waggling his eyebrows. Junmyeon rolls his eyes, then remembers where he put the present. The back seat. He shifts in his seat again, feeling Chanyeol’s expectant gaze on him. 

It should be simple. Reach into the back seat. Get the present. But Junmyeon has to practically hold his torso over the center console to maneuver his arm to get to it. That brings him uncomfortably close to Chanyeol. Junmyeon tries to act like it’s no big deal, turning his head so it faces the back of the car as his right hand tries to grasp the box.

In the passenger seat, Chanyeol thinks that Junmyeon smells amazing. Like Febreeze and coffee and spicy shaving cream, and his skin is porcelain pretty and he has very long eyelashes that look even longer in the dim lighting. Chanyeol’s fingers twitch where they’re clasped in his lap, tempted by how easy it would be to reach out and brush Junmyeon’s cheek. Junmyeon is so damn _close_ , and he hopes that it takes him an hour for the man to finally retrieve the present. Or is this the present? He’d be happy either way.

By the time Junmyeon grabs the box, he’s cursing his tiny fuel-efficient car. Next time he’s getting one of those huge SUVs, where you have to practically yell from the driver’s seat for the passenger to be able to hear you. When he glances up, Chanyeol’s expression has changed. His smile is gone, eyes darkened with a look all too familiar to Junmyeon. 

Alarms flare off in Junmyeon’s mind, but instead of following the impulse to push the kid out of the car and peel out from the parking lot, he calmly presses his back against the door for the second time. 

“The present,” Junmyeon gruffly says, thrusting the box toward Chanyeol. Chanyeol seemingly snaps out of his trance, beaming once more as he accepts it. 

“You know, you really didn’t have to get me something,” Chanyeol says, lightly shaking the present to listen to the contents rustle around. It’s about the size of a square tissue box. “I’m just happy that you came to see me. Hell, I was happy when you texted me.”

_I know_ , Junmyeon thinks, guilty from his own hesitation. He feels unnaturally nervous, hoping he bought the right present. Chanyeol rips the wrapping paper away, his right eye squinting smaller as he reads the front of the tin box with an open grin. “Lorinna’s Pink Lemonade Mix.”

“It’s my favorite mix,” Junmyeon says, “I used to live off this stuff. None of that Country Time bullshit.”

Chanyeol’s fingers tightly grip the tin to keep himself from flinging his arms around Junmyeon’s neck. Junmyeon remembered. It was such a tiny exchange, back at the restaurant two weeks ago, but he _remembered_. Chanyeol’s heart feels like it’s swelling in his chest, and he’s trying his best not to overreact, but he’s so fucking happy as he waves the tin with victorious pumps. He cheers, then says, “This is perfect, I love it. You…thank you. A lot. I’ll drink all of it.”

Seeing Chanyeol’s face light up has left Junmyeon feeling brave. “Let’s go to the convenience store I saw on the corner. We can buy some cheap cups and water and drink some of the mix before your birthday is officially over.”

Fifteen minutes later, Chanyeol and Junmyeon are drinking pink lemonade. The engine is left running, warm air wafting over them as Radiohead softly plays in the background. Junmyeon parked so they’re facing the street. They watch headlights wash over the pavement as cars pass. It’s comfortable, talking and sipping and leaning into the heated leather seats.

Chanyeol doesn’t notice it isn’t his birthday anymore until the clock on the dashboard reads 12:24. 

“Oh,” he quietly says. “It’s over.”

“Happy belated birthday.” Junmyeon extends his cup towards Chanyeol’s, the plastic making a dull noise as they touch. For the first time tonight, Chanyeol turns pensive, chewing on the rim of his cup as he continues staring at the clock. Junmyeon notices the kid’s top lip is wet with pink lemonade and effectively looks away. “Hope it was a great day.”

“It was,” Chanyeol mumbles, and his gaze slowly slides to Junmyeon. It quickly becomes apparent that sitting alone in a car only works when Chanyeol isn’t looking at Junmyeon and they’re distracted by other things. “I’m really glad you came, Junmyeon. I know it’s kind of hard for you, and that you don’t really want me to be your _Akaito_ —”

“What?” Junmyeon asks before he can help himself. Chanyeol blinks and lowers the cup to his lap. 

“You don’t want me to be your _Akaito_?”

“That’s…” Junmyeon’s mouth soundlessly moves before he finds the right words. “Not right.”

“What do you mean?”

God. The kid actually looks confused. Is that really what he thought?

“It’s not that there’s something wrong with _you_ , or that I’d prefer someone else over you.” Honestly, Junmyeon is irked by how synchronized things are between them, like they’re on the same wavelength. “It’s that I don’t want to be tied. I went through—well, a lot has happened. I guess I’m tired. Exhausted. The thread feels more like a burden than a blessing at this point.”

“But the thread means we’re soul mates, how could that be a burden?”

“Soul mate. Do you even know what that means?”

Chanyeol frowns. Somehow the kid’s voice sounds deeper in the closed proximity of the car. “It means the person you're meant to be with for the rest of your life—the one you’re _going_ to be with.”

He speaks with such conviction that it makes Junmyeon weary. Chanyeol is so young. He's never had an actual relationship before—doesn’t understand what it means to be wholly devoted to another person. Everything sounds lovely and magical in theory, Junmyeon can't blame him for being so enchanted by the idea of the _Akaito_. But Chanyeol has never been hurt. Doesn't know the pain that comes with being in love.

“It’s not that simple.”

Chanyeol groans, shot-gunning the rest of his pink lemonade. “Why not? Why can’t it be simple? My mom and dad are _Akaito_ , and they—”

“Are two people. They definitely don’t represent the whole world. Just your bubbled version of it, kid.”

Chanyeol pouts, making him look much younger than eighteen as he says, “I’m eighteen now, stop calling me a kid.”

“I’ll stop calling you a kid when you learn how to keep that stupid lip from jutting out.” It happens in a moment all too quick, Junmyeon moving without thought as he reaches across the center console and prods at Chanyeol’s plush bottom lip. He realizes what he’s doing mid-poke, and manages to push harder so the motion is much less tender. Chanyeol finds himself both amused and irritated as the older man retracts his hand and unsuccessfully tries to keep the panic out of his expression. 

“If you wanted an excuse to touch my lips, I could have recommended better ways to do it,” Chanyeol grumbles.

“I’ve got plenty of ideas,” Junmyeon replies, “Next in line is using my foot.”

Chanyeol cautiously smiles. “So…you’re not unhappy that I’m your _Akaito_?”

“No.” Junmyeon figures it’s okay for him to say. He puts the cup down and clicks his seatbelt on, Chanyeol following suit. Touching the high schooler is definitely a red flag for the night, he needs to go home. “As annoying as you are, I guess there’s something likable about you.”

“Stop it, you’re being too sentimental,” Chanyeol sarcastically says as they pull out from the gas station, but he’s still smiling. As Junmyeon drives him back to the apartment complex, Chanyeol can’t help but think that Yura is right. Sugar coated tongue. Warm seats. The hum of Radiohead blending into the passing night scenery. Good company. This moment, he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. 

 

☓

 

On Sunday, Chanyeol carries the tin of lemonade mix in the crook of his arm, taking it with him wherever he goes in his house. He keeps it in his lap while he plays video games and goofs around with his guitar. In the bathroom, lets his shorts and boxers pool at his ankles instead of holding them up, using one hand to hold the tin and the other handle his business. At dinner he sits it in the chair next to his as his parents have a wordless conversation with raised eyebrows, little sighs, and slight shakes of the head that translate to: “ _Don’t ask him about it. We probably don’t want to know._ ”

Chanyeol likes the feeling that bubbles through him every time he looks at the tin; wants to be constantly reminded of how great his _Akaito_ is and how happy he was in that car last night. After he climbs into bed at the end of the day, he holds the tin up, reading the nutrition facts on the back like a bedtime story. 

“Size: twenty-nine ounces. Serving Size: seventeen grams. Servings per Container: forty-eight.”

Later that week, Chanyeol manages to go see Junmyeon three times, taking up six of the remaining forty-six servings. They meet at the park, eating whatever Mrs. Lim stuffed in Chanyeol’s backpack before he left work, and drinking tepid lemonade. When Chanyeol asks about his job, Junmyeon finds himself talking about recently being passed over for that promotion. He tried his best not to be bitter about it, but is surprised when he hears the acid in his own voice as he talks. Junmyeon knows Chanyeol doesn’t understand most of the jargon he uses, but somehow at the end of his careful complaining, he feels lighter about it. 

The next week, Chanyeol only manages to make it across the city twice. He and Junmyeon use up four of the forty servings, Junmyeon making it easier by bringing along two thermoses with water so they don’t have to fumble with plastic cups and bottled water. 

“You know,” Junmyeon says, slightly shivering on the park bench as Chanyeol hands him one of the thermoses he just mixed the powder into, “maybe I should have given you hot chocolate mix instead. We could get hot water from the café down the street.”

“No. This is perfect,” Chanyeol stubbornly says, pouring some of the mix into his own thermos. He doesn’t care how freezing it gets. All he wants is to drink pink lemonade with Junmyeon in the park. 

It’s so cold that their breath forms in puffs of clouds around their faces, swirling and dissolving as Chanyeol makes Junmyeon laugh with a story of how he lost a bet to Jongin at the beginning of the semester: the penalty being trying out for the cheerleading team. Needless to say, he didn’t make the cut. 

“Giraffes like you aren’t meant for acrobatics,” Junmyeon says, his eyes turning into little crescents as he smiles, “You’re good at things like reaching items that are high up, eating, and clomping around.”

Chanyeol stops llama-chewing the massive chunk of steamed bun in his mouth and lets out an affronted, “Hey.”

The week after that, they use up six of the remaining thirty-six servings. On one of the days, Chanyeol stops on his way to the park and buys disposable hand-warming packets for both of them. He walks up to the bench to see Junmyeon waiting, holding out a simple black beanie as a greeting. 

“I’m sick of watching your ears turn bright pink from the cold because of your snapbacks. Put this on before they fall off,” Junmyeon says, trying to make it as unceremonious as possible. Chanyeol trades him packets for the hat, pulling the beanie over his head as Junmyeon opens up the kid’s backpack and starts taking everything out. 

Christmas is getting closer and both of them are exhausted from all the extra work. Chanyeol’s hours at Harper’s have increased to accommodate the influx of customers, while all of Junmyeon’s clients have big projects they need managed for the holidays. Even the loops they normally take around the park after eating seem like too much work, so they head to the café Junmyeon mentioned before and warm their hands on oversized mugs filled with peppermint coffee.

Then somehow, in the blink of an eye, it’s December 20th. Chanyeol’s winter break has started. He spends most of his Monday at Baekhyun’s house, playing video games with their group until he has to head to Harper’s for his lessons.

Danah happily says “hi” Chanyeol as she walks through the door, Chanyeol too distracted to notice she’s holding something as he greets her father and takes the guitar case. The two of them settle into the practice room a minute later, Danah thrusting a poorly wrapped box at Chanyeol that’s the size of his fist. 

“Merry Christmas,” she says, somewhat out of breath from her nerves. Her cheeks are mottled pink from the cold, black hair swirling around her head from the wind, but her eyes are bright from behind her glasses. 

“For me?” Chanyeol asks, to which she enthusiastically nods. 

“I made it,” she says as Chanyeol takes the box. Chanyeol flushes, equally touched at her kindness and gratified that he’s the kind of cool instructor that his students give gifts to. He unwraps then opens the box, taking out an egg-sized wooden pin that’s in the shape of a guitar. It’s been roughly painted with neon colors, the black lines of the strings wobbly and touching in parts. Tiny, sparkly beads are glued all over the surface, pink and green and yellow, in the shape of hearts and smiley faces and music notes. Danah topped it all off with silver glitter. Some of it twinkles to Chanyeol’s t-shirt as he pokes the pin through it.

“This is great.” He grins, looking at it against his chest. Danah looks like she could burst with pride. “I’ll keep it on my backpack so everyone at my school can see it.”

Chanyeol starts their lesson, noticing Danah struggling a little more than usual with the last piece he gave her to work on. It must be the spirit of the holidays, because she doesn’t get frustrated like usual, and laughs as Chanyeol wiggles his head back and forth as he plays it on his guitar. 

Soon their forty minutes is up. Chanyeol pulls a little bag out from his backpack in the corner, along with a baggie of mixed candy he gives to all his students the week before Christmas. 

“I got you something, too,” Chanyeol says. Danah adjusts her glasses to cover up her surprise, putting the candy in her lap and opening the peppermint-striped present. She opens it, then pulls out the necklace at the bottom. It’s a simple chain that Chanyeol bought at the dollar store, but it’s what dangles from it that’s important. “That’s my lucky guitar pick. I’ve had it for a long time and used it so much that it’s worn down and doesn’t work anymore. Did a lot of practicing and hard work to get it to look that way.”

He had given the pick to Sehun, who used a fine drilling tool during shop class to punch a little hole in the top of it to slide the chain through. All Danah can do is stare at it and wheeze, her sinuses acting up from the weather, so Chanyeol takes it from her and helps pull it over her neck. 

“Do you like it?” he asks, knowing full well the answer. She nods so hard this time that her glasses fall down the bridge of her nose. “Good. Just—” Chanyeol momentarily falters, this is the part he has trouble with. “—when you wear it, remember to keep working hard. That uh, that persistence is, uh, the best in any situation. People can say a lot of mean things, you know? And do a lot of mean things, but what matters is what _you_ do. So yeah. Don’t stop trying your best. At guitar and school and dealing with jerks. Okay?”

Didn’t quite stick the landing, but Danah doesn’t seem to care.

“Okay.”

 

☓

 

Minseok has supernatural strength. He literally picks Junmyeon up from his cubicle’s chair, jostles him across the room, then tosses him into the elevator. Minseok presses the “lobby” button then steps out, leaving Junmyeon with his clothes askew, still trying to comprehend what just happened as the doors _ding_ then shut.

The elevator begins its descent. Junmyeon imagines what damage Minseok could do if he put on a little more weight, maybe went to the gym a couple times a week. When Junmyeon reaches the lobby, he steps out of the elevator and waits by the doors with what he hopes is a threatening expression. He hates being manhandled. 

Minseok walks out of the elevator a couple minutes later, wearing a coat and carrying all of Junmyeon’s things. Junmyeon moodily takes his coat from Minseok’s arm, putting it on before taking his briefcase. 

“That was unnecessary,” Junmyeon growls, to which Minseok shrugs. 

“I saw your time sheet this morning. You’ve stayed at work past ten every day for the past couple weeks that you haven’t met your _Akaito_ ,” Minseok says, handing over Junmyeon’s keys and cell phone. Junmyeon wonders when he’ll stop getting that twinge of nervousness every time Minseok and Chanyeol say the word _Akaito_. To them it’s so natural, easy. He hasn’t been able to say the word out loud to himself, sitting in the silence of his apartment. “I told you to be done today by six so we could go to dinner. Have some drinks. There’s this thing I want us to try, called _relaxing_? I’m not sure if you’ve heard of it.”

“Is ‘relaxing’ where you punch your coworker for picking you up and shoving you into an elevator? Because it rings a bell, and I have a feeling it may happen very soon.” Junmyeon crisply straightens the lapels of his coat. Minseok is unfazed as the two of them walk out of the building together. 

Later that night, three beers in, Junmyeon has taken off his jacket, loosened his tie, and undone the buttons of his sleeves to roll them up to his elbows. At this point, the rising, pleasant buzz of alcohol is worth having to take a taxi home, leaving his car at the parking garage for the night. Minseok stops after two, quietly smiling and shaking his head when the waitress calls him honey and asks if he wants another.

“I hate to admit it, but you were right.” Junmyeon leans toward Minseok so he can hear him, the pub a little more crowded than usual for a Monday night. There’s a soccer game on, Arsenal vs. Manchester City. Both of the men are Chelsea fans, so they don’t mind peeling their eyes away from the screens to talk. “I think this is exactly what we needed.”

“What we _need_ is a way to say ‘no’ when the uppers add on to our caseloads this time of the year. We don’t make nearly enough money for all the work they pile on.”

Junmyeon clinks his pint against Minseok’s empty one, then drains the rest. 

“That’s how it always works, isn’t it? We do their work, and they get paid twice as much.” Junmyeon doesn’t have to flag down the waitress this time, a frothy pint is traded out for his empty glass. The chattering in the pub grows as an Arsenal forward breaks away from the last line of defense, sprinting toward the eighteen with the ball. 

“You should’ve gotten that promotion,” Minseok says, then both of them stand from their chairs and cheer with the rest of the bar as a shot is fired and Manchester City’s goalie barely manages to punch the ball away from the upright corner. 

The pub is so crowded that it’s impossible not to bump into each other as people settle back into their seats. Junmyeon accidentally elbows someone as he straightens his chair before sitting. He turns to apologize, coming face-to-face with pretty half-lidded eyes and an incredibly pronounced dimple. 

“Oh, sorry,” Junmyeon says, placing his hand on the other man’s bicep, as if he had to steady him. Actually, Junmyeon is an arm guy, and when he’s teetering between buzzy or drunk he likes literally grabbing onto opportunities whenever he can. 

If possible, the other man’s dimple deepens as he smiles. “It’s okay.” He points to the screen. “You a Manchester City fan?”

Junmyeon shakes his head no. He still hasn’t let go of the arm and the other man has noticed, sweeping his eyes up and down Junmyeon. “Chelsea. I’m just happy whenever another team beats Arsenal.”

“Glad we have something in common.” The man peers at Junmyeon’s tiny table, taking in Minseok in his business attire before looking back at Junmyeon. “Could I buy you a drink?”

“I’m working on one right now, but join me and my friend and you can buy me my next.” Junmyeon gives the hard bicep one last squeeze as the man agrees, then pulls up a chair. The three of them introduce themselves, the new blond addition to their table tells them his name is Yixing. 

During the two years Junmyeon and Jongdae were together, he didn’t go out a lot, but when he did, Jongdae was always there, extremely territorial and fending off anyone who so much as looked at his boyfriend. Junmyeon had forgotten how easy it was for him to flirt; how he thrived on the power of being able to control someone with a quirk of his eyebrow or a seemingly thoughtful press of his thumb against his bottom lip. 

They talk through the first half, then well into the second. Yixing seems more than willing to play. When he laughs, he leans into Junmyeon, beer breath hitting each other’s faces. Their knees brush beneath the table as Yixing tells Junmyeon he’s a performance artist, mostly modern dance, which explains the solid mass of muscles Junmyeon feels every time he smooths his hand down the blond man’s back or grabs his arm as he leans in to talk. 

Minseok orders a water and sips it through a straw, not sure which game is more interesting, the one on TV or the one taking place right in front of him. 

Junmyeon tries to ignore his friend’s stare, because he likes this version of himself. Misses it. Things have been so out of control lately: this cheesy push and pull of flirting is predictable and gives him confidence that he hasn’t felt in a long time. So he puts his hand on Yixing’s leg, sliding his fingers across denim, toward his inner thigh, to see just how much he can get away with. 

It goes on for the rest of the game as Junmyeon finishes more beer and totters into a drunken state of mind. As the last minutes tick down, Yixing is murmuring in Junmyeon’s ear, low and so close his lips brush against the skin. For such a sweet face, his words paint the opposite picture. A shiver goes up Junmyeon’s spine. It was difficult, going from Jongdae pouncing at him every other day when they were dating, to having no sex at all. This new prospect is as tempting as it is terrifying.

“Do you live around here?” Yixing asks. 

Junmyeon nods. “About a five minute cab ride away.”

“Think we could share that cab?”

It’s so easy. Junmyeon wonders why he waited this long. 

Minseok has an indecipherable look on his face as he pays for their food and drinks, then heads out after giving Junmyeon a hearty pat on the back. Junmyeon wraps an arm around Yixing’s shoulders, liking how easily the other man bends and follows his movements as he leads him out of the pub. 

Anticipation stirs low in his stomach as they break into the crisp night air. Yixing clutches to him, one of his hands splayed across Junmyeon’s lower abdomen. Junmyeon takes them closer to the curb, looking for an empty taxi nearby. He digs into his coat pocket to grab his phone and check the time, but pulls out an old hand warming packet. 

The thought of Chanyeol sumo wrestler-slams against him. He stiffens enough for Yixing to notice, curiously blinking as he cranes his neck to get a better look at Junmyeon’s face. 

“Problem?”

_Shit_ , Junmyeon thinks, shoving the packet back into his pocket, _shit shit shit_. Why did he have to think of that kid now? The empowerment he felt just moments ago leaks away, sputtering and turning icy cold. 

Junmyeon doesn’t owe Chanyeol anything. He made it clear that there’s nothing romantic between them, _Akaito_ or not. The red thread isn’t supposed to be a noose. Besides, Chanyeol is way too young for anything that Junmyeon has spent the last ninety-plus minutes planning in his head. Why can’t he enjoy Yixing, twenty-six year-old Yixing, an adult- _adult_ , who has the body of a dancer and the mouth of a sinner?

Even with wide open eyes, all Junmyeon can see is Chanyeol’s crazed, happy face as he opened his birthday present. 

“Shit,” Junmyeon says it out loud this time. He reluctantly takes his arm away from Yixing’s shoulders, slapping the palm of his hand against his forehead and hating himself as he continues, “I’m sorry, I can’t do this. I’m tied, Yixing. I have an _Akaito_.”

He’s surprised when he looks up to see Yixing smiling, looking slightly confused. 

“So?” Yixing says, holding up his own hand and pointing to his pinky. “Me too. If anything, you get how complicated it is.”

Junmyeon can’t see anything, but he can easily imagine the shimmering red thread wrapped around the dancer’s little finger. He doesn’t know why he’s so caught off-guard. It’s not uncommon for people who are tied to opt out of their red thread, or have problems with their _Akaito_ and seek other relationships. That’s what he’d been trying to explain to Chanyeol, right?

“Oh, uh, yeah. Complicated.” Junmyeon’s beer brain is taking its time catching up. 

Yixing looks back toward the entrance of the pub, finding what he was looking for then gesturing toward the crowd. “See that guy over there? Leather pants?”

Junmyeon follows his pointing finger. He sees the man in leather pants, wearing a gaudy fur coat with piercings punched up the cartilage of his ears. “The one making out with that guy against the wall?”

“Yep. That’s him,” Yixing sighs, tilting his head as he watches the guy in leather press a much shorter man against the brick building. The two of them look like they’re battling to see who can swallow each other’s face first. “My _Akaito_. Tao. One of my best friends since we were five years old.”

“Are you guys, uh, together?” Junmyeon asks, wishing he wasn’t drunk so he could gain some footing. Yixing shakes his head, turning back to Junmyeon with that irritatingly adorable dimple. 

“No. We’ve always had sort of a love-hate relationship. When the string showed up a couple months ago, we both freaked out. Haven’t quite worked through it.” Yixing comes closer until they’re chest to chest. He traces the front dip of Junmyeon’s collar with his finger, lightly trailing across skin and creating goosebumps. One tilt of either of their faces and they’d be kissing. “But I can tell by the way you touched me in there that things must be just as messy between you and your _Akaito_. You can forget about whoever’s at the other end of your string, at least for tonight. I like to be taken care of.”

Holy shit. Junmyeon can’t believe this. Instead of what he’s about to do, throwing himself into traffic feels like a better option at this point. But he gulps, takes a deep breath, and says, “You have no clue how good that sounds to me. But I can’t. I—I’m sorry.”

Yixing bites his lip and steps back, clearly embarrassed but handling it rather well. He sheepishly shuffles his hand through his hair. “Alright. That’s fine.”

“Look, if it helps, you’re really, really sexy,” Junmyeon says, the alcohol in his bloodstream still spurring him forward. “Any other circumstance, I would have annihilated you.” Drunken eloquence at its finest.

That makes Yixing laugh. He shakes his head, then suddenly reaches over to pat Junmyeon’s pockets down. Junmyeon can only watch as Yixing finds his phone then takes it out, saving his name and number into it. 

“Okay, I know you said no, and I’m all for backing off when I’m told to, but here,” Yixing says, holding up Junmyeon’s phone so the new contact shows then sliding it back into his pocket. “That’s me. Text me, call me, whatever. I’m in town for a while working on a show, and I would love to be annihilated by you anytime.”

In the end, Junmyeon grabs a cab, giving it to Yixing, then manages to hail another for himself. When he gets home, he’s still tipsy and flushed and terribly turned on with memories of how Yixing felt beneath his hands. 

He’s irrationally angry at Chanyeol for existing and having such power over his decisions. He’s angry at the vision of Chanyeol’s face that still hasn’t left him, with his stupid doe eyes and stupid maniacal smile and stupid big ears. Junmyeon snatches his new vibrator off his dresser then slams it back down. He doesn’t even have the composure for that tonight, stalking to his bathroom and turning on the shower. 

Under the spray, Junmyeon takes care of himself. Hard. Impatient. He puts all of his effort into thinking of dancer’s thighs he never got to see and a dimple he never got to touch. It’s not nearly enough. He finishes, breathing deep as he thunks his forehead against the tiled wall. After he showers, he barely dries himself off before flopping to his bed and wiggling beneath the blankets. 

Junmyeon falls asleep within seconds. 

Dreams of Chanyeol. 

 

☓

 

“Has Junmyeon been ignoring your texts again?” Baekhyun asks Chanyeol. 

“Sort of. How did you know?” Chanyeol’s voice comes through muffled.

“Because every time you’re starved for attention you get clingier than usual.”

“I’m not starved for attention.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“Sitting.”

Baekhyun is sitting on the edge of Chanyeol’s bed, game controller in his hands as he and Jongin shoot through a wall of zombie Nazis on the television screen. Chanyeol is sitting directly behind him, his legs framing the smaller boy’s thighs, chest pressed against his back, and arms encircled around his shoulders. Chanyeol has his face morosely buried in the fabric of Baekhyun’s hoodie.

“Sitting?” Baekhyun asks. Jongin swears where he sits on the floor as a zombie tries taking him from behind. “More like hanging. Smothering. Annoying.”

Chanyeol harumphs against Baekhyun’s back, squeezing his arms tighter as a reply.

“What did you do to the guy this time?” Jongin asks.

“Nothing,” Chanyeol defensively says, his head shooting up. He pauses, thinks. “Well, I _did_ send him a bunch of pictures of baby giraffes. Like ten in a row. Maybe twenty.”

“I don’t even want to know—”  
“He keeps on calling me a giraffe like it’s some insult. But giraffes are fucking adorable. Right? They have big ears and big eyes and their kicks can decapitate a lion. I would even go as far to say that giraffes are _sexy_ ,” Chanyeol says, looking between his friends like he expects them to agree. 

“No,” Baekhyun flatly says, “Don’t go that far. Don’t call giraffes sexy. Somehow it makes you sound even more desperate.”

“I thought you and your old man were getting close,” Jongin says. On the screen, he and Baekhyun regroup up a set of stairs, amassing as much ammunition and first aid as they can. “You brag about it all the time.”

Chanyeol rakes his fingers through his hair in frustration. “We were. I have no idea what I did. Because it must have been _something_ or else I’d get more than one-worded texts from him.”

“You do a lot of stupid shit,” Jongin agrees. “Could be anything.”

“But usually when I say or do something dumb, Junmyeon points it out right away.” Chanyeol narrows his eyes at the thread tied around his pinky, then flails his hand and watches it shake across the room before it disappears into the wall. He waves harder and accidentally whacks Baekhyun on the side of the head.

Baekhyun pauses the game to elbow Chanyeol in the ribs. He snaps, “This is exactly why Junmyeon is avoiding you, because you’re a spastic idiot.”

“Sorry,” Chanyeol mumbles. He slides his arms around Baekhyun’s waist, pressing his face against his shoulder again. Baekhyun starts the game, trying his best to remain annoyed. It’s difficult when Chanyeol is acting like such an oversized baby. 

“Why don’t you go see him tomorrow?” Baekhyun asks. In the game, Jongin finds a grenade and Baekhyun scrambles out of his way. Even if they’re on the same team, Jongin just likes fire and destruction and isn’t above blowing him up. “You know he’s probably the type of guy to work on Christmas Eve.”

The next morning, Chanyeol does just that. He expected the block of businesses to be like a ghost town as he got off the metro, but things are as busy as ever. Apparently people who wear suits to work don’t believe in the magic of Christmas Eve. Or they do, and their CEOs don’t. 

It’s not until Chanyeol’s inside Lachowski, Miller & Co. when he checks the thread, and sees that it’s pointing outside of the building. He looks out the front windows of the lobby. Maybe Junmyeon popped out for a moment and will hopefully be back soon. 

It isn’t until Chanyeol is in the elevator, finger poised over the button board, when he realizes he can’t remember which floor Junmyeon’s cubicle is on. The last time he was here, he was lost in a flurry of excitement from literally hunting down his _Akaito_. He must have covered miles going up and down in that elevator to find the right level. 

This time it takes about fifteen minutes, eight different floors, and a handful of side-eyes from employees just trying to get from one place to another, but Chanyeol finds Junmyeon’s level. The next problem is finding the right cubicle. He tries to be indiscreet as he peers into the opening of every one he passes, but ends up disturbing and probably confusing every person inside. 

He finds Junmyeon’s empty cubicle. It’s easy to differentiate from the others, mostly because it’s as messy as he remembers it, and there’s miniature golf statuettes knocked over on one of his filing cabinets. 

Chanyeol tosses his bag to the floor and sits in Junmyeon’s rolling chair, finally able to get a closer look at Junmyeon’s workspace. Crowded in the corner, behind some crumpled up papers, Chanyeol sees some small picture frames. He clears away the mess and looks at them, one by one. There’s a picture of Junmyeon’s mother in one frame, easy to tell by their identical eye smile and matching noses. She’s little, and the set of her lithe shoulders reminds him of Junmyeon. 

“Mother-in-law,” Chanyeol quietly says, bowing his head in greeting. He finds her in another picture, this time with a man sitting beside her with his arm around her shoulders. The man doesn’t look anything like Junmyeon, in fact, Chanyeol is pretty sure that they’re two different races. 

There’s a couple frames with kids in them, some bearing a little resemblance to Junmyeon and others looking nothing like the man. Then a little further down the desk, Chanyeol sees a picture of Junmyeon—well, a picture of Junmyeon in about twenty years. It’s Mr. Kim, glaring like he didn’t want the picture to be taken. 

Chanyeol is actually intimidated by the frame, putting it reverently back into place and folding his hands into his lap. He now knows where Junmyeon’s commanding side comes from. 

Junmyeon hasn’t said anything about his family. Nothing. Chanyeol asked him if he had any brothers and sisters and Junmyeon gracefully side-stepped the conversation. Chanyeol blabs about his parents and Yura while Junmyeon is annoyingly tight-lipped. 

Trying to pass some time, Chanyeol tidies up Junmyeon’s cubicle. He doesn’t peg his _Akaito_ for the type to keep an organized mess, there’s no method to the madness, so he doesn’t hesitate to put files back into the cabinet or straighten clustered stacks of post-it-notes with indecipherable scrawl. 

“Chanyeol?”

Chanyeol looks up to see Minseok poking his head into the cubicle, his eyebrows high on his forehead. 

“Hey!” he greets with a grin.

“Uh,” Minseok slowly says, walking into the cubicle and taking a look around the clean desk. He’s never seen it like that before. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for Junmyeon. I’m kind of surprising him. Do you know where he is?”

Minseok takes a long time to answer, taking in the smiling boy. He carefully proceeds. “Junmyeon got on a plane this morning, headed to his hometown for the holidays. He didn’t tell you?”

Chanyeol’s hopeful expression crumbles. The boy blinks with confusion, making Minseok think that he may as well kicked the kid and gotten the same result.

“No. I didn’t—he didn’t say anything.”

“He probably didn’t find it that important,” Minseok says, finding himself wanting to smooth the pieces. “I mean, it’s just for a few days. You guys only see each other a couple times a week, he must have figured you wouldn’t know the difference if he was gone. Didn’t want to worry you.”

It’s a stretch, and doesn’t work. Chanyeol’s shoulders slouch forward as he nods. 

Minseok grits his teeth. Every part of him knows he needs to keep out of Junmyeon’s personal business, but he can’t help and say, “Let me take you out to lunch.” He checks his watch, then corrects himself. “I mean, breakfast. Possibly considered brunch if we get there after nine.”

Chanyeol looks up, only hesitating for a moment before replying, “Okay.”

The two of them brave the cold and walk a couple blocks to get to Minseok’s favorite diner. They both get coffee, and when Chanyeol orders the biggest breakfast meal the joint serves, Minseok feels brave and asks for the same. 

“I feel really fucking stupid,” Chanyeol lowly says as he dumps sugar and cream into his coffee. He got up early this morning to make the trip so he’d still have enough time to head home and go to the candlelight service at his church. 

Minseok holds onto his mug with both hands, mentally cringing as Chanyeol undoes yet another package of cream that turns his coffee a pale color of chestnut. 

“Don’t feel bad,” Minseok says, “It’s just a miscommunication.”

“You make it sound nicer than it really is. I don’t think we have enough communication happening right now for it to be considered that.” Chanyeol takes a long sip of his concoction. He scrunches his nose in distaste, shaking his head. “How does anyone get used to the taste of plain coffee?”

“You’re drinking it wrong.” Minseok asks a waitress to trade out Chanyeol’s mug for another, and a small glass of warm milk. When she returns, Chanyeol watches as Minseok pours some of the milk into the mug, then sprinkles in a little sugar. “Now try.”

Chanyeol does. It’s still not as good as the caramel macchiatos or peppermint mochas he loves, but it’s drinkable. He feels slightly more grownup as he sips on it while they talk. 

“So Junmyeon hasn’t really been replying to you?” Minseok asks. 

Chanyeol shakes his head. “I get one-worded answers. It’s so weird, we saw each other on Sunday, everything was normal, and then he ignores all of my texts on Monday night and only says things like ‘Yeah,’ or ‘Really?’ when I try and talk to him.”

Minseok thinks of that blond dancer, yet another thing he had to put all of his effort into butting out of. He didn’t want to ruin the moment or judge Junmyeon for something that put his confidence back together. 

“Sometimes Junmyeon simply needs space,” Minseok tries. “I think Christmas puts a lot of stress on him, so taking a step back might help him deal with it. Don’t take it personally.”

Chanyeol thinks of the jumbled photographs he saw in the cubicle. “Maybe. There could be a lot on his mind. But he told _you_.”

“I’m his coworker. I see his face all day, every day. I’ve worked with him for a couple years now, I know what he does on Christmas.” Also, Minseok drove Junmyeon to the airport at three o’clock this morning, but Chanyeol didn’t need to know that. 

“I know, but I’m his _Akaito_.” Chanyeol frowns. “Are you tied? Wouldn’t you let your _Akaito_ know if you were going to be flying across the country?”

“I was tied. She died a few years ago.”

The stricken look that takes over Chanyeol’s face is exactly the reason why Minseok avoids telling people. He doesn’t like the instant commiseration they try to give, as if fighting through his own ocean of self-pity isn’t hard enough. He spent two years treading and saturating in it, he’s exhausted and wants to move on: wants to be able to hand over the death of his wife to someone and not feel like the weight of it will drag them down, too. 

“I’m sorry. That sucks,” Chanyeol bluntly says. 

“Yeah. It does.”

“I bet she wouldn’t have been too happy if you booked a flight and didn’t tell her.”

That surprises a laugh out of Minseok. Chanyeol’s inflecting his own petty problems on Minseok’s _dead wife_ , but it’s so casual and accepting that it brings a strange relief. 

“No, probably not.” Minseok smiles. “But we were married, tied to each other for seven years. You’ve known Junmyeon for less than two months. Different situations.”

“I guess so.” Chanyeol puts his elbows on the table and rests his chin on the heels of his hands. “You’re pretty enough as it is, so your _Akaito_ must have been gorgeous.”

“That’s not exactly how it works,” Minseok says, trying not to be flustered at the compliment, “but yeah, she was really beautiful.”

Somehow, the two of them end up talking about Minseok’s _Akaito_ through most of theirbreakfast. It’s the most he’s spoken about his wife ever since the accident, Chanyeol curious and unintentionally warm in a way that coaxes everything out. It’s interesting to Minseok how the high schooler can be so open; so obvious of his emotions and frustrations in a way that Junmyeon is the opposite of.

While they’re finishing up their food, Minseok cuts off the conversation about his wife. It’s cathartic in its own way, but his chest has begun to hurt and he wants to keep the thought of her tucked away for the rest of the day until it stops. 

“So what should I do?” Chanyeol asks after ignoring Minseok’s protests and asking the waitress to split their bill into two. “Should I call Junmyeon? Should I book a flight to him, punch him in the spleen, then fly back home?”

“You should do what feels best to you,” Minseok replies, to which Chanyeol rolls his eyes. “You’re his _Akaito_ , I’m not. Besides, Junmyeon’s back in a couple days. I wouldn’t waste a plane ticket on punching him when you can wait and punch him when he comes back.”

That seems to satisfy Chanyeol. The two of them eventually say goodbye, then Minseok heads back to the office and Chanyeol boards the metro. 

About an hour later, back in his cubicle, Minseok sends Junmyeon a text. < _Chanyeol stopped by LM &Co. today, was surprised that you left without telling him. Looked like a stranded puppy. Feel the guilt. Feel it_.>

Across the country, Junmyeon quietly swears at his phone. His mother’s house is buzzing with activity. Christmas music is blaring on the radio. His two half-brothers are yelling, arguing over the football video game that’s on the TV. His half-sister keeps on popping out of the kitchen, covered in flour, screeching for them to shut up. The oldest of them is fifteen, youngest eleven. Junmyeon’s mom is watching one of her friend’s toy poodle during the holidays. It viciously chases and nips at his step-father’s meek greyhound as they sprint from room to room. His step-father himself is sitting beside Junmyeon on the couch, talking and talking and talking about why Junmyeon needs to be investing in stocks at this point in his life. 

“I meant to ask,” Junmyeon’s mom says above all the noise, walking into the living room with even _more_ tinsel to add to their Christmas tree. “No Jongdae this year?”

She says it softly and well-meaning, but it feels like a jab to Junmyeon’s gut. 

“Nope,” Junmyeon says, ignoring the confused look on her face. He’d brought Jongdae home with him last year after resolutely swearing up and down after his last couple boyfriends it was something he’d never do. He liked watching Jongdae marvel at the palm trees, nodding along as Jongdae remarked again and again how strange it was to have the weather in the seventies on Christmas.

Chanyeol would have probably had the same reaction. He’d love Junmyeon’s seaside town. The thought brings another hit to his stomach. 

He shouldn’t be so curt with the kid. He knows that by now. But every time Chanyeol texts him, guilt flares inside of him and makes it feel impossible to talk. As if the frustration of what happened with Yixing wasn’t enough, the holiday amplifies everything. Junmyeon doesn’t feel like he can worry about the whole _Akaito_ situation and his family at the same time. 

At least, that feels like a good enough excuse right now. 

“You know,” Junmyeon’s mom says, “I was going to make fruit pizza for dessert tomorrow after dinner. Sure you don’t want to stick around a little longer?”

It’s a stealthy attempt to try and get Junmyeon to stay at her house for all of Christmas, but Junmyeon shakes his head. “I already told you, I’m going to Dad’s tomorrow for dinner. He made reservations.”

Junmyeon’s mom openly grimaces, step-dad tutting and shaking his head. “He’s taking you to a _restaurant_? On _Christmas_?”

“Yeah,” Junmyeon says. He tries changing the conversation, complimenting how nice his mom’s garden looks, but she’s focused now. 

“You know, I invited him to dinner here, but he couldn’t even accept that.” She sighs, taking care to assemble a handful of tinsel over a branch. “He’s so stubborn. Like he couldn’t set aside his pride for one moment so we could all be together. Selfish, if you ask me—”

Junmyeon’s mom is lovely and sweet and caring, but when it comes to his father, she has a habit of forgetting all that. She forgets she did just as damaging a job mangling their marriage as he did; that she’s just as stubborn as Junmyeon’s dad, and can be twice as acidic. Junmyeon can only listen to her rant for so long until he excuses himself and goes outside to take a walk. 

The sun is shining, and Junmyeon can taste the smell of ocean on the back of his tongue. The water is only a twenty minute walk away, and Junmyeon finds himself tempted to follow the pavement until it reaches the sand instead of going back inside the house. 

Tomorrow will bring a different kind of chaos. His dad’s life is a stark difference to his mother’s. His house is quiet, deadly so. The TV is always on, but its volume is set on low, making it easy to hear the clinking of tumblers and bottles as his dad fixes drink after drink. There used to always be some other woman hanging around, trying her best to fill the silence by talking to Junmyeon with too much excitement, making plans for him to fly back out so they can get to know each other better—even though they never lasted long enough for that to happen. But for the past couple years, there hasn’t been another woman. Just Junmyeon’s father, going golfing together, complaining about his ex-wife, and patting Junmyeon’s back in encouragement when they talk about work. 

Junmyeon looks at his phone as he walks, checking Chanyeol’s texts. In either of his parent’s houses, the word _Akaito_ has no positive meaning. It makes it hard to believe that such a smiley, upbeat person is at the other end of his string. 

Before Junmyeon can comprehend what he’s doing, he’s calling Chanyeol. 

“ _Hello_?” Chanyeol practically yells it, making Junmyeon hold the phone away from his ear. He pauses in front of another house, sitting on the curb and hoping they don’t mind. 

“Hey, kid,” he manages to say. “Sorry I’ve been a little hard to reach. I’ve been really busy.”

There’s a pause on the other end, Junmyeon can hear him breathing. 

“That’s okay,” Chanyeol says. It sounds like he means it. “I understand.”

“I heard that you saw Minseok today.” Junmyeon doesn’t know how to segue into an apology. 

“I did. He took me out to breakfast. Minseok’s really nice. And cute. And is probably considerate enough to tell me if he wasn’t going to be in town for the holidays.”

“Ouch, direct hit.”

“It’s a lot less of a direct hit than I was originally planning.” Junmyeon can hear the smile in Chanyeol’s voice. 

“I just—I just wanted to call and say I’m sorry, uh, for not really answering your texts. I’ve had a lot on my mind but it’s important to you and I was being selfish.” Junmyeon rushes it all out, feeling a blush heat beneath his cheeks at how hard it is for him to say such simple things. 

“It’s okay,” Chanyeol says for the second time. “Apparently I’m clingy and spastic and annoying.”

“True, but usually not all at once,” Junmyeon teases. He hears Chanyeol scoff. Now that they’re talking, it’s easy to picture bringing the kid here. Chanyeol would want to spend all day at the beach, probably get sunburnt and whiny, then chase Junmyeon around with waggling eyebrows and Aloe Vera gel. He finds himself smiling thinking about it. 

They’re only able to talk for a couple minutes until Chanyeol reluctantly tells him he has to go. When he hangs up, Junmyeon blinks at the surrounding neighborhood, feeling like he was transported back to the park bench during the conversation. He stands and walks back to his mom’s house, hands in the pockets of his shorts. Somehow going back to the chaos feels a little less daunting.

 

☓

 

Junmyeon calls Chanyeol again on Christmas, and the next day after that. The gesture stems from his guilt, but as the days pass and New Year’s draws closer, it fades. 

They trade pictures. Chanyeol sends one that Yura managed to take while simultaneously putting him into a headlock. His eyes are squished shut in pain as Yura beams at the camera, her hair in disarray. Junmyeon can’t believe how much they look alike. It makes him eye his own half-siblings, trying to catch hints of himself in them. There’s not much to work with. 

Junmyeon sends a picture of the beach at sunset, the sky a fiery pink and orange and red. Chanyeol saves it as his cell’s background—the first time it’s been anything other than his own face. He’s never been to the ocean before, and asks Junmyeon what it’s like the next time he calls. 

“It’s uh,” Junmyeon says, “Have you ever been to the fish section in the supermarket?”

“Yeah.”

“It smells like that. But fresher? And the air’s a lot cleaner here. So, warm and fresh but briny.”

Before work that day, Chanyeol goes to the market by Harper’s and stands in the seafood aisle. He leans over some fish that are on laying on top of shaved ice, deeply inhaling like he’s trying to vacuum the mackerel into his nostrils. An old woman wearing a kerchief watches him with her mouth slightly open as he puts all of his effort into smelling the fish, trying to imagine himself standing beside Junmyeon on the beach. 

In return, Chanyeol sends a picture of himself wearing the snapback Baekhyun got him for Christmas. It’s black pleather, the word “ILLEGAL” stamped across the front in white. Junmyeon does not think it’s as hilarious as the high schoolers do. 

Chanyeol asks for Junmyeon to send a picture of himself in exchange for the last one. It takes Junmyeon two hours of playing with the angle and feeling utterly ridiculous as he snaps selfies before he settles on one that looks good enough. After all that work, when he sends it, Chanyeol quickly replies:

< _That is the ugliest sweater I have ever seen in my entire life_. >

Junmyeon looks down at the red knit his mother had gotten him for Christmas. It has snowflakes and elk on it: kind of charming in his own opinion. As he struggles to think up a snarky reply, he receives another text from Chanyeol. 

< _But the guy wearing it is super hot so I guess it’s okay_. >

Junmyeon sighs. < _I’m flattered._ >

Chanyeol misses the sarcasm. < _You’re welcome_. >

Later that day, Junmyeon meets with three of his college friends that are in town. They carpool to their old university. Nearby, they walk through the nature trails they used to—drunkenly, more often than not—frequent that led to the bluffs by the ocean. 

One of Junmyeon’s friends had a baby a month ago; her second. They sit on a rotting log to take a break and everyone crowds around her phone to look at pictures. For some reason, the baby doesn’t look like the alien lizards Junmyeon normally sees when he’s looking at newborns. He doesn’t have to fake the “ _Aww_ ” as he choruses it with his other friends.

When they reach the top of the bluff, another friend reveals that a production company optioned the film rights to the last book he published. The money they gave him was enough to buy a sailboat. He shows them pictures of it on his phone, parading it around like it’s the same thing as a baby. 

As they sit on the edge of the cliff, gazing over the ocean, his third friend pulls out a flask, invoking cheers. At least, until one of them remembers she has to breast feed when she gets home and sourly passes it back. Junmyeon’s friend with the flask puts his arm over his shoulders, reminding him that his wedding is coming up this summer; threatens him to come back so he can be his groomsman. 

Junmyeon is swept into everyone else’s stories. He’s jealous, plainly so. He used to be the admirable one: a paid internship at a notable firm right out of college, a well-paying job and nice apartment by the time he was twenty-four, then a series of promotions rolling in like waves over the following years. Now his career, what had been the most braggable thing in his life, is placid.

It’s the odd cocktail of jealousy, competitiveness, and panic that makes him pull out his phone when his friends all look at him and ask how things are going. One of them mentions Jongdae as Junmyeon scrolls through his pictures. His thumb moves faster before he finds what he’s looking for then holds his phone out.

“Jongdae and I broke up,” Junmyeon says, “because I became tied. To him.”

Junmyeon has about thirty pictures of Chanyeol on his phone now, sent over text. The kid must walk around all day with his camera pointed at himself, incessantly snapping selfies with peace signs and pouty lips and a wrinkled nose. 

His friends grapple over his phone, all peering at the most simple picture Junmyeon could find. Chanyeol is softly smiling at the camera. Without a snapback on, he looks a little older, his hair naturally disheveled in a way some guys spend hours trying to gel their hair into. 

Junmyeon would never admit it to Chanyeol, but he’s attractive. It’s enough for him to feel proud showing his picture off—especially when Chanyeol isn’t here to ruin it all with his big, dumb mouth. Let his friends soak in the kid’s handsome features and form their own ideas about what he’s like. 

“You have your _Akaito_?” 

“That’s great!”

“Let me see, let me _see_.”

Junmyeon fidgets as he tries to keep an impassive face. It feels better to make it seem like he was the one who got tied first—that he left Jongdae for his _Akaito_ instead of the other way around. 

“He’s _cute_ ,” his girl friend coos.

“He looks really young, how old is he?”

“Young,” Junmyeon replies.

“Like how young?”

“Legal.”

Standing as his oldest friends, they know not to push Junmyeon any further. They ask other questions, like how they finally met, and Junmyeon laughs with the rest of them as he tells an edited version of Chanyeol bashing his face against the cubicle. With most of the country between his hometown and the city, it feels safer to share some pieces.

“So, is he living with you now?” his author friend asks.

“Should I add a plus-one for your wedding invite?”

Junmyeon heartily laughs until he remembers those are legit questions. He clears his throat. “No, and no. We’re just getting to know each other. I don’t—it’s hard to tell how things are going to turn out.”

His friends let Junmyeon leave it at that. They all look back at the phone and start laughing. Junmyeon peers over their shoulders to see that they’re scrolling through other pictures. On the screen is a close-up picture of Chanyeol with his eyes crossed. A piece of clear tape is stuck from his forehead to the tip of his nose, squishing it upwards and making him look like a pig. Junmyeon squawks and scrambles to take his phone back as they swipe to another: Chanyeol with his cheeks so stuffed with marshmallows they’re spilling out of his mouth. There’s drool at the corner of his mouth They manage to see another one—Chanyeol sprawled across the floor, ass angled up, like he’s posing for a cheesy glamour shot with half-lidded eyes—before Junmyeon’s phone is finally hidden in his grip.

“He seems great,” his girl friend says, still giggling. 

“He is.” Junmyeon winces at how defensive it sounded.

“I’m putting him as plus-one for you no matter what. You need to bring that guy here so we can meet him.”

“Hey,” Junmyeon says, in desperate need to change the conversation. He navigates through his phone to the picture he took of himself for Chanyeol. “What do you guys think of this sweater? It’s not ugly, right?”

 

☓

 

Minseok is waiting at the curb of the pick-up zone as Junmyeon exits the airport’s lobby. Junmyeon’s body grumbles in protest as the cold smoggy air shoves against him. He always entertains the idea of moving back to his hometown, enjoying the sun and fresh air and ocean, but visiting his family serves to remind him exactly why he left in the first place. 

Minseok takes Junmyeon’s luggage from him and puts it into the trunk as Junmyeon climbs into the car. He groans as he buckles in, sinking into the seat. There’s piles of work waiting for him when he gets back to his apartment, the price to pay for taking a week off during the holidays. His eyes close.

“SUHO!”

Junmyeon shoots forward, his seatbelt knocking the air from his lungs. As he struggles for breath, Chanyeol sticks his torso over the divider, craning from the backseat. Apparently, Junmyeon clutching at his chest inspires hilarity; Chanyeol adds insult to injury and guffaws in the older man’s ear. 

It had been a rough day, especially since Junmyeon was unable to get a direct flight out. With two airport transfers, it had sucked every ounce of energy out of him that arguing with his mom about about arguing with his father hadn’t already drained. 

Junmyeon’s patience easily snaps. His hand shoots out, fingers tangling in the hair at the back of Chanyeol’s head, and he gives a practiced yank. 

Chanyeol’s laughter is stoppered with a grunt in the bottom of his throat as his head is tilted back. He goes surprisingly lax and quiet, blinking at the ceiling of the car. 

Junmyeon forgot what he was going to yell at the kid. Funny how everything came to a screeching halt with the simple, resonating noise Chanyeol made. Or not funny. At all. Scary. It’s terrifying how pretty Chanyeol looks with the long line of his throat bared, his pink lips parted as he waits.

The sight smolders Junmyeon’s stomach. He panics at the sensation, letting go of Chanyeol before tightly crossing his arms. Chanyeol lowers his head back down, slightly dazed. He stares at Junmyeon, who is resolutely looking out the passenger side window. 

Chanyeol is about to ask what just happened when Minseok opens the driver’s side door and slides in. Minseok instantly wishes he could slide right back out when he notices the strange atmosphere. He glances at Junmyeon, whose shoulders are practically tensed to his ears. Maybe inviting the kid to ride along had been a bad idea.

Choosing to ignore it, Minseok chirps at Chanyeol to buckle up and pulls away from the curb. He maneuvers them into a conversation before the silence can manifest; asking Junmyeon how his flight went then talking to Chanyeol about Call of Duty when he only receives curt answers. 

Minseok’s idea was to take Chanyeol and Junmyeon out to dinner, but when he mentions it, Junmyeon side-steps the offer. 

“It would be nice,” Junmyeon says, “But I’m exhausted.”

As starving as he is, the thought of having to be within sitting distance of Chanyeol any longer makes his microwaveable dinners at home seem ten times more enticing. The image of Chanyeol with his head tilted back; the feeling of Chanyeol’s soft hair between his fingers, is seared into his mind. The sooner he can get rid of it, the better. 

“Junmyeon,” Chanyeol whines from the back seat, “I’m sorry I scared the shit out of you then laughed in your face. Don’t be mad. I haven’t seen you in _forever_ —”

“A week,” Junmyeon corrects.

“—and I’m so happy you’re here and I came all this way to pick you up with Minseok. _Please_ have dinner with us.”

Junmyeon turns in his seat to glare at the kid. It’s easier to forget how sexy he looked when he’s sulking like that. Junmyeon sighs. “Fine. But only because I’m a good friend and wouldn’t make Minseok eat alone with you again.”

“Hey. I am a goddamn pleasure to eat with,” Chanyeol says. 

“Pleasure isn’t the word I would use,” Junmyeon replies. “Eating with you is like sitting next to a trash compactor.”

“Minseok.” Chanyeol looks at the man trying to remain dutifully silent as he drives. “Why can’t you be my _Akaito?_ You’re ten times nicer, smarter, and prettier than the guy at the end of my string.” 

“Er—”

“What? Are you trying to make me jealous?” Junmyeon asks, still feeling prickly. “He can have you. He seems better at putting up with your stupidity than me.”

“ _Good_. Minseok, it looks like you and I are an item now.” Chanyeol leans over the divider again. Something about Junmyeon’s snippy replies is riling him up; his voice is becoming louder and louder.

“I uh—” Minseok clears his throat.

“Look,” Junmyeon says, using his pointer finger to push Chanyeol’s head away, “You’re making Minseok uncomfortable. Cut it out.”

“I’m not—” Minseok tries.

“ _You’re_ the one who said he could have me.”

Ten minutes of bickering later, Minseok roughly pulls the car to the side of the road, putting it into park. It effectively shuts Chanyeol and Junmyeon up as they both turn to look at him. 

“I think,” Minseok slowly says. He looks calm, but there’s something burning in his eyes. “That you two should maybe walk the rest of the way to the restaurant together.”

“What do you mean?” Junmyeon asks. 

Minseok takes a deep, calming breath. “Both of you need some fresh air. To calm down, or something.”

“But—” Chanyeol starts.

“Or it’s possible that I need you guys out of my car.”

Any efforts to argue are futile. Minseok gives them instructions to the restaurant, about twelve blocks away, then gently asks that the two of them get out. They do as instructed, stepping to the curb then watching as Minseok pulls into traffic and drives away. 

Junmyeon and Chanyeol stand facing on the sidewalk, staring each other down. A couple beats pass, then Chanyeol sighs, his shoulders slouching. 

“I really missed you,” he quietly says. The words squeeze Junmyeon’s heart, he has to look away from the vulnerable expression on the kid’s face.

“I really…” Junmyeon trails off, struggling to match the sentiment, as much as he feels the same. “I’m glad to see you. I am. I’m just exhausted, kid. I don’t have a lot of patience right now. Maybe I _should_ go home.”

“I’m sorry,” Chanyeol says. He looks down the road, at the streetlights as they begin to flick on one by one. The days are supposed to be getting longer at this point, but the sun still sinks around six o’clock. “I promise I’ll tone my stupidity down. I’ll do whatever you want. But please stay for dinner so I can order us pink lemonade. I’ll even have them put a shot in it and that’ll help you relax.”

It’s pathetic, Junmyeon thinks, that he’s so easily swayed by Chanyeol. He makes a show of thinking it over, eventually shoving his hands into his pockets and walking in the direction of the restaurant without a word. 

Chanyeol practically skips to his side, sidling up so close they bump elbows as they walk. He’s learned how to steal little moments of contact from Junmyeon: fingers brushing as they go about preparing their drinks in the park, teasingly poking his abs and trying to feel if there’s any muscle beneath the layers of his coat and suit jacket, spreading his legs when they sit on the bench so that their thighs brush.

In the restaurant, Minseok is relieved when Junmyeon and Chanyeol walk up to his booth and look considerably more calm. Junmyeon allows Chanyeol to straighten his windblown hair, then tells him to take his hat off and returns the favor. Seeing such a simple but familiar gesture puts an ache in Minseok’s chest that he promptly ignores. 

“Are we playing nice now?” he asks.

Chanyeol grins. “Basically I had to promise I’d shut up and get him alcohol.”

“Glad you guys are learning how to negotiate.”

By the time they’ve finished their meals and are sipping their drinks, waiting for dessert to arrive, Junmyeon feels much better. He can’t tell if it’s the vodka in his lemonade, or the way Chanyeol makes him laugh, or how Minseok offers to help him sort through some of his caseloads so he doesn’t fall irreparably behind at work. Whatever it is, he’s limp. Exhaustion has replaced everything else.

He’s talking to Minseok about a particularly anal client when he feels Chanyeol lean against him. The pressure is timid at first, but when he doesn’t pull away, Chanyeol relaxes his weight. He’s warm. Solid. Junmyeon regrets snapping at him earlier, remembering how diligent and encouraging Chanyeol was during the rough Christmas week without even knowing it.

Junmyeon shifts in his seat, and Chanyeol thinks he’s pulling away, but Junmyeon reaches his arm up and loosely slides it around Chanyeol’s shoulders. The kid is slouching, his butt scooched to the edge of the seat, so the height difference isn’t awkward; fitting together in a way that’s surprisingly natural. Chanyeol freezes, not even daring to breathe in the chance of jinxing it, as Junmyeon continues talking with Minseok about work. 

Chanyeol wants and wants and wants. He wants to turn to Junmyeon. Bury his face in his shoulder. Wrap his arms around his waist. Get closer hug harder touch more. He hadn’t been expecting that the moment Junmyeon gave him an inch, he’d want to sprint the rest of the mile. It takes a lot of concentration to sit still.

Through the feinted nonchalance, Junmyeon’s heart staggers in his chest. Today has been such a strenuous mess. He wants to forget the complications of his family and fucking air travel and all of the alarms that go off every time he touches Chanyeol. Wants this night to be worry-free: to eat until he’s stuffed, lean into Chanyeol until he’s warm, then sleep until his body wakes on its own accord. 

So he does. For tonight. 

 

☓

 

On New Years Eve, Junmyeon is buried in files on his computer as the ball drops. He can hear it on the TV he turned on for background noise, but doesn’t snap out of his work-crazed mind until his phone buzzes. He unlocks the screen to his phone without looking, already typing a reply to Chanyeol until he notices it says _Yixing_ at the top of the message. 

< _Happy New Year. Any chance I’ll be seeing you_? >

Junmyeon stares at it with an open mouth as images of the dancer come back to him. Some are clearer than others. He forgot that Yixing even texted himself after saving his contact in Junmyeon’s phone.

< _Happy New Year to you, too. That’s a good question_. >

Junmyeon sort of hates himself for such a lame reply. Yixing seemed like the kind of guy who would be out on a night like tonight, romping around with his leather-clad _Akaito_ and driving other bar goers mad with his dimple and perfect body. It’s strange that Yixing was thinking of him when there must have been a swarm of guys around him wherever he is. 

< _That’s a bad answer_. > Yixing texts him back. < _Where are you right now_? _We should meet up, I’m down the street from the bar we met at_. >

Junmyeon looks at his reflection in the decorative mirror hanging in his living room. His hair is a mess, eyes are red from rubbing at his contacts too much, and the sweats and t-shirt he’s wearing have a random collection of stains and holes in them. He feels the furthest from sexy and is terribly sober for even _thinking_ about going to meet Yixing. 

< _I can’t. Not tonight._ > He ends up texting. Junmyeon doesn’t get a reply. Five minutes pass, then ten, and the fifteen minute mark eventually breaks him as he hurriedly texts, < _But when are you free next_? _I’ll take you for a coffee or something_. >

< _I’m not exactly looking for a coffee date_. > Yixing sends. 

_Right_ , Junmyeon thinks, _of course._ Neither is he. < _Sorry_. >

< _Don’t apologize. I’m just looking forward to when you finally say yes._ >

Across the town, Chanyeol is sulking that Junmyeon refused his invite to the city’s downtown celebration, positive that some kind of magic would have happened and he’d bring in the new year kissing his _Akaito_. Instead, what Chanyeol gets is a very drunk Jongin who is _done_ with his whining, grabbing his face at midnight and mashing their lips together just to get him to shut up. They separate with a _pop_.

“There, you freak. There’s your New Year’s kiss,” Jongin yells over the noise of people cheering. They’re nestled in the heart of a crowd that fills up blocks of the city’s biggest park, watching from closed-off roads as fireworks explode over their heads.

“You taste like shit!” Chanyeol dramatically wipes his hand over his mouth, his whole face scrunched in distaste. Jongin isn’t paying attention. He’s grabbed onto an equally inebriated Sehun next and the two of them sloppily make-out as Baekhyun and Kyungsoo combine their forces to push them away. 

“At least you got kissed,” Baekhyun grumbles, eyeing a group of pretty college girls that are filming the fireworks with their phones. Somehow Jongin hears him and lets go of Sehun, attacking Baekhyun with a barrage of kisses that land on his mouth and nose and cheek and chin.

Baekhyun shrieks and bats him away as Jongin says, “There. And since half that spit on your face is Sehun’s, it’s like you got kissed by _two_ people. Now.” He turns to Kyungsoo, a darkly seductive look on his face that has fished girls and boys alike into his trap. “I’ve kissed almost everyone in our group tonight, all that’s left is—”

“Touch me and I castrate you,” Kyungsoo warns. Even drunk, Jongin knows better than to test him out on that threat. He shrugs, grabs Sehun, and the two of them approach the group of girls that Baekhyun was looking at, moving on to new victims. 

“Why are we friends with him?” Baekhyun asks the others. 

“Because we love him,” Chanyeol says, his voice full of regret. 

“It’s unfortunate, isn’t it?” Kyungsoo sighs. 

Chanyeol stares up at the fireworks. So many of them have gone off that the colors pop against a wall of smoke instead of the night sky. The cold air makes the greasy smell of gunpowder stick to the back of his tongue.

He’d never put much thought into New Years Resolutions before. Being narcissistic and laid back makes the idea of setting goals for improvement seem laughable. 

But this year is different. This year, he has Junmyeon. He can’t help but take the older man’s figurative stiff-arm as a challenge instead of what it’s intended to be. So, as he watches the fireworks blast through the air and listens to crappy Top 40 music crackling through the speakers a radio station set up, he makes the first New Years Resolution of his life. 

 

☓

 

After New Years, things start to settle back into a normal routine. The first week of January, Junmyeon and Chanyeol use up six of the remaining thirty servings of the lemonade mix. Even with gloves on, their fingers turn numb and they struggle with preparing the drinks. But they eat and walk and talk anyway, mildly complaining about the cold but staying in the park after it gets dark. Junmyeon walks Chanyeol to the metro every night, pretending he has to go that way anyway even though the parking garage is in the other direction. He feels uneasy, watching the kid disappear into the tunnel, but every time he tries to get Chanyeol to take money for a cab he flails and yells and does everything he can to avoid Junmyeon’s outstretched hand. 

On Friday night in front of the metro’s entrance, Junmyeon offers to help out with buying him a monthly metro pass. Chanyeol waves him away and says, “It’s taken care of already.”

“Okay, then let me give you a little for the fee.”

“Don’t worry about it. I dressed in drag. Got a discount.”

Junmyeon blanks. “What?”

Chanyeol’s smile turns crooked. “Are you trying to picture it? Thinking of what I’d look like in a wig and skirt?”

“Definitely not.” Maybe a little.

“Yeah you are.” Chanyeol’s eyes glint as he grabs the front of Junmyeon’s coat, who allows him to give a couple teasing tugs before he bats his hand away. “I know Yura has a picture of it saved on her phone, if you ask nicely, I can—”

“Nope.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m not.” He is. 

“You filthy, _filthy_ man.”

“Either walk down the stairs to catch your metro or I’m pushing you down them.”

“Ooh, I like it when you talk dirty to me.”

The next week, they use up eight servings of the pink lemonade mix. Due to a teacher’s inservice on Monday, Chanyeol shows up at Lachowski, Miller  & Co. with three subs from Junmyeon’s favorite deli. Minseok and Junmyeon take their lunch early and all three of them crowd into his cubicle. He’d rather have Chanyeol taking advantage of the cramped space and pressing their thighs together than eat in the breakroom under the scrutiny of his coworkers. 

Junmyeon takes Chanyeol to a movie on Saturday. A local theater is playing _The Thin Man_ , one of Chanyeol’s favorites. 

“This isn’t a date, just so we’re clear,” Junmyeon says as they settle into their seats. Chanyeol snorts a laugh, trying to figure out the best way to arrange his popcorn and cookie dough bites and nachos and sour patch kids. 

“Then why did you insist on buying my ticket and all this food?”

“Coming to the movie was my idea, so it’s only proper that I take care of your ticket. And in my defense, when I told you I’d buy you a snack, I didn’t expect you to order half the menu.” 

“I’m proud to have exceeded your expectations.”

By the time the twenty minutes of previews are over, Chanyeol has already annihilated the food. Junmyeon expects the kid to try and make a move, the two of them sitting so close in the intimate darkness of the theater, but Chanyeol is immersed in the film. He leans forward in his seat, eyes glassy as they crinkle when he smiles. 

Junmyeon ends up watching him more than the movie. Junmyeon knows Chanyeol must have seen it a million times, but he still laughs, his whole body shaking, every time Mr. and Mrs. Charles try and out-banter each other. He tenses when Mr. Charles explores an old, creepy factory, jumping in his seat and grabbing Junmyeon’s wrist as the dog, Asta, barks at a cat that slinks off-screen. 

Chanyeol holds on a little longer than necessary, eventually letting go just before Junmyeon decides to pull his arm away. It’s too easy, huddled together in their little bubble like this, to do something like hold hands. Junmyeon finds it harder to not throw all caution to the wind, the way the light from the screen reflects and catches all the pretty contours of Chanyeol’s face. In here they feel more like equals, two guys in the dark, enjoying the same movie. 

It’s dangerous. So Junmyeon pulls his hands into his lap and leans away from Chanyeol, far enough that their coats stop brushing every time Chanyeol shifts in his seat. 

As they walk out of the theater, Junmyeon appears to be the only one who struggled with inner turmoil during the movie. Chanyeol is waving his arms, gabbing on and on about the brilliance of William Powell; how badly he wants to own a really nice suit; the need he has to buy a puppy and name it Asta. The two of them walk a few blocks to get to a café, and by the time hot chocolate is placed in front of Chanyeol and Junmyeon is sipping on coffee, Junmyeon has forgotten all his worries. 

They spend almost an hour arguing about which of the Thin Man sequels are the best, then the next hour agree that _The Great Ziegfeld_ is better than _My Man Godfrey_ for Myrna Loy’s sake. Chanyeol leaves the table to go to the bathroom, and when he returns, he’s sporting a William Powell mustache drawn on with a stick of Yura’s eyeliner he still has in the bottom recesses of his backpack.

“What…” Junmyeon’s voice loses strength. The moment is so weird that it doesn’t feel real enough for him to be embarrassed. Chanyeol smirks as he sits, grabbing his empty mug and toasting it in the air.

“Now my friends,” Chanyeol says in his best—which is pretty terrible—mimicry of Nick Charles, “if I may propose a little toast. Let us eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die.”

His voice travels, naturally, so that the people in the seats around them turn to look. Junmyeon considers sinking in his chair then hiding beneath the table, but Chanyeol is looking at him so expectantly and he always had a deep-rooted love for Mrs. Charles. He clears his throat, hand slightly shaking as he grabs his own mug and holds it in the air. 

“You give such charming parties, Mr. Charles,” Junmyeon softly says with that transatlantic accent of Old Hollywood. He can hear someone chuckling behind him, but quickly forgets it from the way Chanyeol breaks into a megawatt grin. 

They clink their glasses together, Chanyeol practically wiggling with happiness to have a playmate as he says, “Thank you, Mrs. Charles.”

And now Junmyeon is smiling just as hard as Chanyeol. He shakes his head, reaching over the small table to swipe his thumb against Chanyeol’s mustache. The black smears across his lip. 

“What did you put on your face?”

“It’s called a mustache,” Chanyeol says, pushing Junmyeon’s hand away when he really wants to catch it and press his lips against his palm. “I’m the kind of man’s man who can grow facial hair just by focusing really hard. One minute, two tops, and it pops right out.”

Chanyeol’s face is as smooth as a baby’s bottom. Junmyeon would question if he even went through puberty had it not been for his freakish tallness and deep, rumbling voice. 

“I’m sure,” Junmyeon tonelessly says. 

The next week, they use up four of the remaining sixteen servings of the lemonade mix. It lightly snows when they’re in the park. Junmyeon’s cheeks are pink, lips moist with over-applied Chapstick. Snowflakes catch on his eyelashes and melt and glisten as they talk and Chanyeol thinks he’s one of the most beautiful people in the entire world. Junmyeon shivers, and it’s deceivingly frail for the hair-burning glare he sends when Chanyeol tries to wrap his arm around him. 

They still do their laps, Junmyeon yelling at Chanyeol to get his ass back on the sidewalk when the kid decides to test the thickness of the ice on the pond by trying to skate across it. 

“Come on, it’s fun! Come skate with meeee!” Chanyeol calls, his bullegged-ness more pronounced as he tries to keep his balance. Watching him reminds Junmyeon of a baby giraffe learning how to use its legs. 

“Chanyeol, if you fall in, I’m not going to come get you.” Junmyeon shakes his head as Chanyeol rolls his eyes. 

“I’m not going to fall—” Chanyeol lets out a girly yip as a loud crack resonates from the ice beneath his feet. He scrambles toward the bank, slipping and falling on his butt with enough force to create another series of cracks. Junmyeon runs onto the ice, grabbing Chanyeol’s legs that are splayed in the air. He tries to yank Chanyeol away, then ends up slipping from the lack of traction on his work shoes. Junmyeon slams ass-first too, with a strangled grunt.

Junmyeon struggles and stands, grabbing Chanyeol—who is now laughing so hard he seems to have lost all control of his body—by his legs again and pulling him to the grass. 

Chanyeol wipes the tears from his eyes. He has the audacity to point a finger at Junmyeon as he says, “You said you weren’t going to come get me.”

“I’m already deeply regretting my decision,” Junmyeon grumbles, giving Chanyeol’s thigh a little kick. He stretches his spine, sullenly rubbing at the small of his back. “Jesus. I think I just broke my ass.”

“That’s a pity,” Chanyeol says, a glint in his eye as he props himself up on his elbows. “I could think of better ways to—”

Junmyeon leans down and flicks Chanyeol’s ear with every word as he says, “No. Sex. Jokes. Allowed.”

The last week of January, they only get to see each other once. Two servings of the pink lemonade mix are used. Chanyeol is extra clingy as they walk, and Junmyeon allows him to link their coat-padded arms together. They pass an old woman and man on the sidewalk who are holding on to each other the same way, making Junmyeon blush as they loudly comment about how cute of a couple he and Chanyeol are. Chanyeol faux-abashedly thanks them, absolutely glowing. 

An hour later, when Junmyeon walks Chanyeol to the metro, he asks, “Should I plan on you coming this Saturday after you finish work?”

Chanyeol shakes his head no. “I’m doing a stay-away thing at State this weekend. They match you up with a ‘freshman friend’ in the dorms and you just kind of shadow them around campus.”

“Sounds like fun,” Junmyeon says, for lack of anything else. Chanyeol shrugs.

“I’d rather be here with you, but my parents are making me do it.”

“It’s a smart thing to do, like dipping your toe in.”

“I’ve already been there to see Yura like a thousand times,” Chanyeol grumbles. “Did you do it when you were in high school?”

“No. I worked double-shifts on the weekends when I was a senior. Didn’t have the time,” Junmyeon replies. Chanyeol waits for him to say more, but Junmyeon remains silent. The kid doesn’t know why Junmyeon rarely speaks about his life before college. Every time he tries to envision Junmyeon as an eighteen year old, all he sees is a muddled black picture. 

“Oh. But, can I stop by on Sunday after I’m signed out? I should come see you if I’m going to be so close.”

“Sure,” Junmyeon says. Without thinking, he reaches over and adjusts Chanyeol’s—his—beanie. Chanyeol blinks at him as Junmyeon presses his fingers beneath the fabric to smooth his hair. “Just text me, okay? And try not to get into too much trouble at State.”

Chanyeol dismissively flicks his hand. “Come on, I have the face of an angel. Do I look like the type of guy to get into trouble?”

“I’m not going to answer that.”

 

☓

 

On Saturday, it’s three in the morning when his phone rings, jolting him awake. Junmyeon blearily searches for it between his blankets, still half-asleep when he answers without looking at the screen. “Hello?”

“Hey, is this Junmyeon?”

Junmyeon tries his best to part the heavy clouds in his mind. He doesn’t recognize the voice. “Who’s this?”

“Look man, are you Junmyeon? He keeps on asking for Junmyeon.” There’s the sound of scuffling on the other end of the phone. Junmyeon can faintly hear him asking someone, “Hey, hey what’s your name?” before he comes in louder when he says, “Chanyeol keeps asking for you.”

Junmyeon shoots to a sitting position in his bed. His heart slams against his chest as he checks the screen. It says “Kid.” “Chanyeol? What’s wrong with Chanyeol?”

“Are you—” 

“ _Yeah yeah yeah_ I’m Junmyeon now what’s going on? Where’s Chanyeol? Did something happen?” 

“Jesus, calm down.”

“ _Don’t tell me to_ —” Junmyeon has to literally bite his tongue to keep himself from yelling. “What’s going on?”

“Your friend Chanyeol here is drunk off his ass. He finally stopped puking over everything but he doesn’t have a clue which dorm he needs to head back to.”

“Dorm?” Junmyeon is already toppling out of his bed, shucking his sweatpants and throwing on a pair of jeans. 

“Yeah. We’re guessing by the student visitor’s pass in his pocket that he’s here for a weekend stay-away with the school, but we have no idea who his host is. Everyone who isn’t sleeping here has cleared out.”

_State_. That’s right. Chanyeol was staying there for the weekend. Junmyeon races from his room and grabs the keys off the counter, scrambling to find his wallet. The boy tells him his address and he scribbles it down on the back of a discarded spreadsheet.

A thought comes to Junmyeon and everything screeches to a halt. He breathes deep to try and calm down. As much as it feels like a dire situation, Chanyeol is just drunk and a little lost. It doesn’t convince his heart to stop thudding so hard he can feel it in his toes.

“I’m…you should call his parents, not me.”

“Look dude, someone needs to come get him. I’m done playing babysitter tonight, especially with a high school kid who puked all over my living room _and_ Nikes. Either come pick him up or he’s sleeping on the lawn until campus security finds him.”

Then the boy hangs up.

“ _Shit._ ” Junmyeon shoves his phone into his back pocket. Swings on his coat. “Stupid, _stupid_ kid.”

The streets leading up to campus are nearly empty, with only a couple drunk students stumbling their way home. Junmyeon pulls his car up to the house written on the address. It’s the usual shitty two-story, dilapidated to the last livable point. Perfect for broke college kids. 

There’s solo cups and crushed beer cans strewn across the unkempt lawn. By a foldable beer pong table, two metal trash cans filled with firewood glow with embers, smoke still rising from their mouths. Only the porch light of the house is on, casting sharp shadows over a kid laying across the front steps. 

Chanyeol. _Those fuckers left him_ outside? _In the_ cold? He doesn’t have a coat on. Junmyeon’s heart jumps to his throat and he climbs out of his car, jogging to the porch. The kid’s eyes are closed, but he moans, frowns and tries to bat Junmyeon away as he lightly slaps at his cheeks and tries to wake him. There’s a very pungent, acidic smell emanating from Chanyeol, the stains on his hoodie and crusts in the corner of his mouth bearing witness to the reason why. 

“You have got,” Junmyeon grumbles, giving another slap, “to be fucking,” another slap, “kidding me, Chanyeol.”

Chanyeol groans. His eyes slowly blink open. He can barely raise his head without the whole world feeling like it just might spin out from under him. Through his muddled focus, he can make out three Suhos. 

“Jun!” he exclaims, not able to get his mouth to make out the second syllable. God, he’s so happy Junmyeon is here. He feels like shit and he wants to sleep for forever but _Junmyeon is here_ and the night just became a million times better. 

Getting Chanyeol into Junmyeon’s car proves to be difficult. Chanyeol flips between having mediocre motor skills and giving up completely. He likes having his arms around Junmyeon, though, and makes a point of saying that every ten seconds. His rank breath makes Junmyeon’s eyes water. He must have been drinking a concoction of things, smelling like a terribly mixed jungle juice. 

“You’re not helping, Chanyeol!” Junmyeon grunts, struggling to support Chanyeol’s weight as he goes boneless again. The kid is a goddamn giant. Junmyeon’s knees shake at the way Chanyeol is draped across him. 

“Look—look’a you, try—trying to feel me up,” Chanyeol sloppily says, going for a wink that ends up in him just closing both his eyes. He doesn’t open them, and begins drifting off to sleep. 

“Chanyeol!” Junmyeon exclaims, shaking him awake. 

Fifteen minutes later, Junmyeon gets him strapped into his car. Junmyeon rolls the windows down as he drives, the cold air whipping through the cab. Chanyeol dry-heaves where he’s slumped in his seat, Junmyeon punctuating every jerk of the kid’s stomach with, “Oh god no no no please no please Chanyeol don’t puke in my car.”

The kid complains how freezing it is but is unable to coordinate the whole finger-to-button movement it would take to shut the window. He sounds pathetic, whining and curling in on himself. Junmyeon fights with all of his might to not feel sorry for him. It doesn’t work.

He’s not sure what to do next. He could use Chanyeol’s phone to call Yura, drop Chanyeol off at her apartment, but _he_ feels like puking at the thought of meeting his _Akaito_ ’s sister, especially in a way like this. The same goes for the kid’s parents. Junmyeon doesn’t even know where he lives.

Junmyeon makes a decision, and despite the other options, he feels like it’s the wrong one.

He parks in the private parking beneath his apartment complex. Chanyeol is a little more aware from all the cold air, and it’s easier getting him out of the car than it was getting him in. Junmyeon has to lean Chanyeol against the wall, propping him up with his hip and an arm slung around his back, to enter in the code to the building with his other hand.

“Is—something, in the pocket?” Chanyeol closes his eyes as he grins. “Or’re you just ha—ppy to see me?”

“I do not have an erection,” Junmyeon calmly says as the doors beep and slide open. “In fact, I would go as far to say that I have a de-rection.”

“ _Ayyy_.” Chanyeol waggles his eyebrows, the only word he caught on to was “erection.” Thankfully, Junmyeon doesn’t cross another living soul as he gets Chanyeol into the elevator, up to the eleventh floor, and into his apartment. 

By the time he kicks the door shut after them, releasing Chanyeol on his couch and making a mental note to get the cover dry-cleaned later, he feels like he’s just had the workout of his life. He rubs at his burning muscles then stops as everything dawns on him. 

Chanyeol is here. In his apartment. On his couch. 

Junmyeon shakes his head, has to walk in front of the couch and stare directly at Chanyeol, and he still doesn’t believe it. 

“You little shit,” he says, to which Chanyeol snorts. He’s on his way to falling asleep, limbs sprawled where he’s half-sitting, half-laying across the cushions. His head is tilted back at an awkward angle, his adams apple bobbing as he snorts and mumbles and moans. The kid is already sweating; in his muddled state he tugs at the fabric of his hoodie. 

Junmyeon takes off his coat and pushes up the sleeves to his shirt. It’s easier to cope with the situation when he focuses on what he needs to do. He walks to his linen closet, pulling out his least favorite sheets and blanket. With those bundled under his arm, he goes to his kitchen and pours a big glass of water. 

When he returns to the couch, Chanyeol is naked. 

Well, almost. He’s fully asleep now, having taken off his hoodie and white undershirt. They lay in a pile next to his shoes, socks, and jeans, the belt somehow undone even in Chanyeol’s state. All Chanyeol is wearing is a pair of flimsy Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles boxers that are scrunched and pulled tight around his hips, leaving very little to the imagination. Junmyeon hiccups then chokes, spilling water everywhere as he whips himself around. 

“Oh god. Mistake. Mistake mistake mistake,” Junmyeon says as his whole body flushes with mortification. Chanyeol has smooth, pretty skin that stretches across toned muscles. His torso is long and lean and leads to pronounced hipbones. The red splotches from where Junmyeon literally man-handled him starkly stick out against his pale complexion. “Shit. No. Shit. _High schooler_.”

Junmyeon desperately wants to quit at life as Chanyeol gives an unsettled moan in his sleep. He puts down the glass and sheets. With a ninja move, Junmyeon unfurls the blanket and casts it over Chanyeol like a net, covering him from head to toe. 

The situation only feels mildly improved. He locates Chanyeol’s head and peels the blanket away from his face. Junmyeon still feels terrible touching him as he carefully arranges Chanyeol on the couch so that his head is on one end and his feet are propped up on the other. With the very tip of his finger, he presses the sweaty hair away from Chanyeol’s forehead.

Junmyeon considers going to his room and locking himself in until the whole situation disappears—desperate for some kind of miracle—but Chanyeol looks extra pitiable with his brow knitted in his sleep. He sighs then goes to refill the glass, placing it on his coffee table next to some Advil and his phone for when the kid wakes up. Jongdae’s mug is still there. It’s hard to believe that the moment of Jongdae sitting on the couch and sipping his morning coffee happened in the same place as this one.

Some fumbling around later, Junmyeon puts Chanyeol’s clothes into the washer and comes back to the couch with a wet cloth. He puts a small trash can within Chanyeol’s arm’s reach, then pulls up a chair and cleans the dried vomit from the corners of Chanyeol’s mouth. Wipes the sweat off his cheeks and forehead. It’s annoyingly intimate, but at least Chanyeol is knocked out to the world and will never know how Junmyeon pauses after cleaning off his nose, reaches out a timid hand to brush a fingertip against his long eyelashes.

Junmyeon instantly retracts his hand. “No. Nope. Shit. Bad. _Passed out_ high schooler.”

He thinks about wiping down Chanyeol’s shoulders and chest, too, but the thought of reaching his hand beneath the blanket makes Junmyeon himself sweat. Then that’s it. That’s all he can do right now. Junmyeon feels confident that Chanyeol is propped up enough should he happen to magically summon any more vomit, and eventually, reluctantly makes his way to his own room.

Junmyeon doesn’t think he’ll be able to sleep the rest of the night, settling into his bed and listening to the hum of the washing machine down the hall. But the next thing he knows, he’s woken by a clunk. 

Sunlight streams through his window, and when he checks the time, it’s ten o’clock. The memory of last night spreads across his chest like a deadweight of dread. Chanyeol. The idiot. All that skin. The discovery of where all of Chanyeol’s seemingly unfounded confidence comes from. 

Junmyeon sits up in bed just to bang the back of his head against the wall, trying to literally knock the thought of it out of his mind. Amidst the thuds, he hears a timid knocking at his door and freezes. This could not be worse. 

“Yeah?”

A beat passes, then the door to his room slowly opens. He sees Chanyeol peering through the crack, then blinking around Junmyeon’s room with squinting eyes. 

“Hi,” Chanyeol says, the syllable full of gravel. He’s wrapped in the blanket, the fabric gathered around his head like a hood. His face is puffy. “Uh, good morning?”

“Yeah.” Junmyeon finds himself angry at the sight of him. 

“I uh…” Chanyeol shuffles his feet against the carpet where he stands, not daring to step into Junmyeon’s room. He has a headache that’s threatening to split his brain in two, his eyes sting all the way to the back of his skull, and his stomach couldn’t even handle the water he gulped down after he woke up a little bit ago. “I’m at your place?”

“You are,” Junmyeon says in a tight tone. “How are you feeling?”

“Fucking shit,” Chanyeol replies. At least he looks embarrassed as he asks, “Um. Do you know where my clothes are? Did I show up here naked, or did I show up then take all my clothes off?”

“I have them, but they’re in the washer.” Junmyeon throws back his blankets and slides out of bed. Chanyeol follows Junmyeon as he walks down the hall, terribly aware of his nakedness as he accidentally bumps into Junmyeon when he stops in front of a set of closet doors. The older man opens them to reveal his washer and dryer, then switches Chanyeol’s wet clothes over. “God, you still smell terrible.”

“Sorry,” Chanyeol rasps, hugging the blanket tighter around himself. He can barely remember the part of the night where Junmyeon came and got him, only some blurred image of Junmyeon swearing at him as he was shoved into the passenger seat of the car. 

“You can use the shower, I have some clothes you can wear after that while you wait for yours to dry.”

Everything Junmyeon does and says is clinical. His face remains unreadable and impassive, which makes Chanyeol nervous. He’s not sure just how bad he’s fucked up this time. Isn’t sure he wants to know. 

Junmyeon leads him to the bathroom, gives him a towel, washcloth, shirt and sweatpants, and an unused extra toothbrush. After explaining how the faucets work, he steps out of the bathroom and shuts the door after himself louder than necessary.

Chanyeol thoroughly cleans himself. Junmyeon’s shower has three shower-heads, each with different fancy settings that Chanyeol spends five minutes playing with. The hot water feels like heaven against him, and he only has to lean out to dry-heave twice before he’s finished. 

The pants Junmyeon gave him are capris on his legs, and the shirt exposes a slice of skin when he bends too far a certain way. But Chanyeol is just thankful that they’re soft and smell nice. When he walks out of the bathroom, he finds Junmyeon brewing coffee in his kitchen. Junmyeon doesn’t even look up as he says, “I’m not sure what kind of shit you’re in with the people running your weekend stay-away, but I suggest you call them. Right now.”

“I already called my ‘freshman friend.’ I did it as soon as I woke up and realized I wasn’t at the school,” Chanyeol says. He fidgets with the shirt, trying to pull the hemline lower. “He took me to a couple parties last night, and we kind of lost each other by the third stop.”

Junmyeon takes a deep breath through his nose. “Do I have to drive you back to the school?”

“No. He uh, panicked when he couldn’t find me, and I only have his number, not the other way around. He already signed me out and said that I went home after not feeling well last night.”

“What?” Junmyeon sounds downright venomous as he turns around. The black in his eyes makes Chanyeol take an unconscious step back. “He didn’t know where you went or what happened to you, so he pretended that you _went home_? You could have been in a ditch somewhere! His only job for the whole fucking weekend was to keep an eye on you.”

“It’s—it’s not just his fault, I mean, I—”

“Oh, I _know_ it’s mostly your fault. Really Chanyeol, you’ve done some A-plus work this time.” The bite in Junmyeon’s tone makes Chanyeol wince. Junmyeon grabs a clean mug from his dishwasher and fills it with coffee. “Why would you ever in a million years think it was a good idea to party during a weekend program that _your high school organized_? Not only party, but get wasted past the point of coherency?” 

“I—they offered me the first couple drinks, and I just, I guess I got carried away,” Chanyeol quietly says. 

“Yeah. You guess,” Junmyeon sharply says, then stops himself short. He’s letting other frustrations make him get carried away. He has to remind himself that the problem isn’t that Chanyeol ended up at his apartment—feeling like his biggest piece of armor against the red thread had been shattered—the problem is that Chanyeol got debilitatingly drunk with strangers and something could have happened to him. 

Junmyeon gulps, grabbing another glass from the dishwasher and filling it with water. He walks it over to Chanyeol who accepts it with a small, “Thanks.”

“Rule number one, Chanyeol,” Junmyeon says, his voice much softer as he makes eye contact with the kid. “Never go out drinking by yourself. Always have a friend with you so that you can watch each other’s backs in case something happens. If you can’t bring a buddy, don’t go.”

“Okay.”

“Rule number two. Never accept a drink at a party that someone hands you if you didn’t see them crack open the bottle yourself. I don’t care if it’s free, especially at a party where you don’t know a lot of the people. Either you bring your own booze, drink beer out of a can, or mess with the keg. Nothing else.”

“Okay.”

Standing this close to Chanyeol, Junmyeon can see that his eyes are dry, cracked red. The kid must feel miserable at this point. Junmyeon has to look up for their eyes to meet, but Chanyeol’s presence is small and timid. 

“Rule three,” Junmyeon murmurs, “Always, _always_ know that you can call me if something happens. I mean, if you can’t reach your parents or sister first. Not like it would bother you anyway, but just in case, you should know that I’ll be there to help if you need me. But please don’t need me too much.”

Chanyeol hadn’t been expecting that. He grips his glass with both hands, wanting to throw his arms around Junmyeon but knowing better. “Thanks, Junmyeon.”

Junmyeon lets out another long sigh, giving Chanyeol’s abdomen a jab with his fist. The kid doubles over and groans, every feeling magnified.

“Rule four. You look ridiculous wearing my clothes.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. That’s not a rule, and that’s also not possible,” Chanyeol replies after he recovers. Junmyeon ignores him, going back to his coffee as he heats up instant oatmeal. The two of them settle on the couch, Chanyeol feeling bile rise in the back of his throat as Junmyeon asks him if he wants him to make eggs and bacon—the best hangover cure according to him. Chanyeol refuses, the thought of grease yanking at his gag reflux. 

Junmyeon fills in the blanks of last night, simultaneously explaining to Chanyeol how he got at his apartment and insulting what an annoying drunk he is. Chanyeol ends up apologizing at least a dozen times, but laughs at Junmyeon’s terrorized face as he recants how Chanyeol shucked his clothes. Then he remembers that laughing makes his headache hammer harder and his throat burn, and ends up curling up on the couch with a whine. 

“I hurt.” He squeezes his eyes shut. 

Junmyeon takes a level sip of his coffee. “Good. Have you thought about what you’re going to do?”

“Kind of. I can’t go home, or else my parents will kill me. They’ll ground me. Make me cut back my hours at Harper’s and not let me out of the house.”

“It’s understandable,” Junmyeon says. Chanyeol tries not to think about how hot he looks, his hair ruffled, shirt and pajama bottoms making him look soft to the touch, and his bare feet stretched out in front of him. He’s never seen Junmyeon look so laid back. It’s always been suits and button-downs and sharp shoes. 

“But I need the money, and those kids that I tutor depend on me being there every week. Plus, if I can’t leave the house for a month, then I can’t exactly come see you.”

“Ah, that would be terrible,” Junmyeon says it with sarcasm he doesn’t mean. Chanyeol narrows his eyes. 

“Yura is gone on a ski trip with her roommates. I’d go stay with Baekhyun but our moms are best friends and Mrs. Byun knows where I’m supposed to be this weekend. My friend Kyungsoo’s parents are really strict, things like sleepovers have to be requested and planned weeks in advance. Then my friend Jongin lives with his grandma and he hates having people over because he says it stresses her out too much. There’s always Sehun, I guess, but I’d hate to give him a piece of blackmail to hang over my head in return for a place to stay.”

“Rough choices,” Junmyeon agrees. He grabs the remote and turns the TV on, switching to the news. There’s an itch on the side of his face, and he realizes it’s because Chanyeol is looking at him with a deadly expectant expression. Junmyeon shakes his head. “No. Nope. Not here. Last night was bad enough. This is breaking enough lines just by letting you hang around.”

“Please?” Chanyeol is not above begging. “Please please please?”

“No.”

“I’ll do whatever you say.”

“No.” 

“I promise I won’t take all my clothes off and throw them across the room again.” 

“ _No_. There’s consequences to your actions, Chanyeol. Accept them.” Junmyeon ignores the voice in the back of his head that reminds him how often his mom used to say those exact words to him. 

“But I _have_. I feel like I’m dying and you yelled at me. That was bad enough. It was terrible. I’ve never seen you so scary and angry. Your face got all twisted and weird and looked so _ugly_.”

“Yeah. Keep on insulting me. That’ll get me to help you.” Junmyeon says, even though Chanyeol has found the perfect way to poke at his guilt.

“Well, I mean, you always look so handsome but then it was like _whoa_.”

“No.” But both of them can hear the tinge of hesitation. 

“Come on, didn’t you ever do stupid shit when you were my age? Wouldn’t you have wanted to catch a break every now and then?”

Junmyeon groans. He can feel himself slipping. It only takes a couple more rounds of arguing back and forth before he caves. “ _Fine_. But I’m inviting Minseok over, too.” He stands, setting his empty mug on the coffee table. 

“Why?” Chanyeol asks. 

_Because I need a buffer to keep me from touching you again_ , Junmyeon thinks, but says, “A witness to give testimony that you deserved it if I should so happen to strangle you.”

“Kinky,” Chanyeol says. Junmyeon throws a pillow at him then says he’s going to get in the shower. He’s only in the bathroom for about twenty, twenty-five minutes, but when he emerges his whole apartment has changed. 

It’s…clean. 

Junmyeon’s not exactly filthy, but he has a habit of leaving things in the spot he last used them. The clothes that he doesn’t send to the dry cleaners are usually strewn across his bedroom floor. He doesn’t bother collecting the dishes around his house until there’s enough for a full load in the dishwasher. Magazines, books, and old DVDs are all littered on the floor, the counter, the side tables, and under the couch. 

Not any more. Chanyeol, with speed that doesn’t speak of his hangover, has taken care of everything. In the hall, Junmyeon can hear his washer humming. He peers in his seldom-used hamper, finding the rest of his unwashed clothes. In his bedroom, his bed is made, magazines and books stacked on the shelf where they belong. After Junmyeon dresses, he peers into the connected living room and kitchen. 

Chanyeol is wiping down the counter with a rag he somehow procured. Junmyeon has never seen the counter completely bare. His dishwasher is running. Chanyeol doesn’t look up as Junmyeon moves to the living room. 

All the blankets he brought out for Chanyeol are folded on the couch. DVDs are back on the entertainment system. The dishes are gone. 

Jongdae’s cup is gone. 

He doesn’t know why that strikes him so hard. Junmyeon looks at Chanyeol’s back as he viciously scrubs at something on the counter. Junmyeon feels like snapping at him for taking the mug; as if the kid pulled a carpet from beneath his feet instead of cleaned his dishes. 

It’s just a mug with a coffee ring inside of it. Sitting there. No one else was going to be able to use it, dirty like that on the table. He shouldn’t have let it stay there for three months, what had he been expecting? That Jongdae would come back and take care of it himself?

Junmyeon bites his lip. He walks to silently stand beside Chanyeol, their arms touching as Chanyeol stops and looks down at him with a questioning raise of his eyebrow. 

“Hey,” Junmyeon says, looking at his _Akaito_. “Thanks for helping me clean up.”

Chanyeol grins. “Least I could do. See, you need me here to keep you from living in squalor.”

Every tender emotion that had been building in Junmyeon’s chest shrivels. He reaches up and tugs on Chanyeol’s Dobby ear hard enough so the kid drops the rag. 

“Gobs of bacon grease,” Junmyeon tonelessly says. 

Chanyeol gags at the thought. “Now that’s just mean.”

Later that night, Minseok and Junmyeon watch from their stools at the kitchen’s counter island as Chanyeol cooks. Both of their mouths are parted open, Minseok paused with his beer bottle half-raised to his lips, and Junmyeon with his head tilted in confusion. 

Chanyeol has four different concoctions going at once, working around the kitchen like he was born and raised there. His made-from-scratch tomato sauce is simmering, asparagus steaming, spaghetti noodles bubbling, and the smell of garlic wafts around the kitchen as he spreads a butter mixture over two halves of a loaf of bread. 

He’s feeling considerably better, as sluggish and worn as his body is, and insisted on cooking dinner as a way to _begin_ to thank Junmyeon. An hour ago, he opened Junmyeon’s fridge to consider his options and was met with containers of moldy takeout and microwavable meals. Clearly embarrassed, Junmyeon instantly offered to go grocery shopping at the mart down the street if Chanyeol made him a list of what he needed. 

Minseok arrived half an hour later, just as Junmyeon returned with the supplies. 

“He’s cooking?” Minseok asked as he took one of the bags from Junmyeon in front of the building. 

“Yeah. Prepare yourself for a trainwreck,” Junmyeon had replied. 

Now, Chanyeol slides the bread into the oven to cook. He checks the tomato sauce, scooping some into a spoon. When he turns around with it, Junmyeon and Minseok startle in their seats, trying to look like they hadn’t been staring. 

“What?” he asks with a terribly contained smile, knowing exactly what they’re thinking. “My mom’s the chef de partie at an italian restaurant. I grew up with her teaching me how to cook, because my dad used to work past dinnertime and she hates having to prepare meals at home.” Chanyeol blows on the spoonful of sauce then holds it over the island, in front of Junmyeon’s face. “Try.” 

Junmyeon leans forward and sips some of the sauce, turning it over his tongue, before blinking in surprise. “It’s good?”  
“Duh. You should have a little faith in me,” Chanyeol says, offering the spoon to Minseok. His reaction is the same as Junmyeon’s. “I may have put a little too much onion in.”

“No,” Junmyeon says, grabbing his beer off the counter, “It’s great.”

When everything is finished, Junmyeon helps Chanyeol dole the food into bows and plates and they set the dinner table. Junmyeon can’t remember the last time he actually ate at the table. He and Jongdae were both creatures sustained by takeout, and usually ate on the couch while watching TV. He’d forgotten that tables were for eating and not spreading all his files and crap from work over. 

“Did your wife cook a lot?” Chanyeol asks Minseok halfway through the meal. Junmyeon chokes on a bite of garlic bread. He swings and misses a kick beneath the table aimed for Chanyeol. 

But Minseok doesn’t look nearly as surprised as Junmyeon thought he would be. He twists more spaghetti onto his fork and shakes his head. “Not really. I mean, we ate dinner together every night—took turns cooking—but it was mostly things that we could throw in the oven and heat up, with a side of something from a can. Nothing like this.”

“It still sounds better than microwaveable meals,” Chanyeol replies, looking pointedly at Junmyeon, who doesn’t miss when he goes to kick him again. 

“My wife _did_ like baking,” Minseok continues, almost lost in his own thoughts. “She was infamous in our families for her cakes, mostly because there was always something slightly off about them.”

“Like what?” Chanyeol asks, still leaning over in his chair from rubbing at his shin.

Minseok smiles. “Things like not putting in enough baking soda, or trying to be fancy and messing with dye that ends up just turning the whole thing black. She tried making a cake in the shape of an elephant’s head for my niece’s third birthday, used pink frosting because it was her favorite color, and it just ended up looking like a big penis with eyes.”

Both Chanyeol and Junmyeon burst into laughter, though Chanyeol continues long after Junmyeon remembers that he’s thirty-one years old and shouldn’t be nearly as entertained by the thought of a dick cake as he is.

“It never deterred her. She liked making people laugh, anyway. Was glad to entertain them even if it was at the expense of her baking skills.”

“Can _you_ bake?” Chanyeol asks Junmyeon. 

“Yes,” Junmyeon calmly answers.

“No.” Minseok raises his eyebrows at Junmyeon. “You most definitely can not. I still remember those charcoal briquettes you brought to work on my birthday last year, claiming they were cookies.”

“I like them crispy.”

“Chips are crispy. Those were bricks.”

“Helping or hurting, Minseok?” Junmyeon glares.

“I guess I’m just going to have to be your little househusband,” Chanyeol says, trying to sound as put-out as possible as Junmyeon sputters at the word “husband.” “Cleaning. Cooking. Eventually coming to resent you for your under-appreciation of all the work I do around here, but staying because the sex remains mind-blowing.”

Junmyeon short-circuits as Minseok shakes his head at Chanyeol, warning him with a, “ _Hey_ ,” even though he’s smiling, too. 

Junmyeon does the dishes as Chanyeol and Minseok look through his recorded shows. They tease him for all the dramas, but end up watching one. One episode turns into two, then three, and eventually by the sixth, Minseok yawns and says he has to go home. Junmyeon sees him out, handing him a container full of leftovers, and then it’s just Junmyeon and Chanyeol in his apartment. Again. 

Junmyeon walks to stand beside the couch, not daring to sit back down. Chanyeol is wrapped in a blanket, one hand peeking out to hold the remote as he navigates to the next episode. 

“Hey, don’t start another one,” Junmyeon says, glancing at the time on his phone. It’s a little past midnight. “It’s getting late, kid. We should go go bed.”  
“One more,” Chanyeol says, pressing _play_. “It’s Saturday night. Be a little crazy. Watch one more episode of the corniest drama ever invented. Maybe we’ll get real wild and bust out that freezer burnt ice cream you have.”

“You seem to like the drama just fine,” Junmyeon grumbles, settling down on the couch cushion farthest away from Chanyeol. “I saw you tearing up during the last one.”

Chanyeol makes a frustrated noise and brandishes the remote at the television screen. “ _If he loves her so much then why is he being such an asshole_?”

“Because if his rich mom finds out that he’s secretly tied to his maid, then she’ll be pissed and he won’t inherent the family fortune.” 

“Why does that matter?” Chanyeol exclaims so loud his voice breaks. “Love rules over all.”

“You’re such a sappy idealist.” 

Chanyeol gives a withering sigh, looking at Junmyeon out of the corner of his eye. “So I’ve been told.”

Somehow, when Junmyeon wakes up the next morning, he’s face-to-face with Chanyeol. The two of them are smushed together, Chanyeol slightly on top of him, laying on the couch. Chanyeol has him wrapped loosely in his arms, one of his legs hitched around both of Junmyeon’s. Junmyeon’s hands are curled, resting against the kid’s chest as it slowly rises and falls. 

His initial thought is to push Chanyeol off the couch, but he’s sleeping so peacefully.

Pretty boy.

Little by little, he remembers how they got in this position. It started with Chanyeol curling up beneath his arm, nuzzling against him like some insistent puppy despite his threats. Then Chanyeol had kicked his legs up to the couch, laying more than sitting while pressed against Junmyeon. Then Junmyeon had angled his body to better accommodate him, and eventually his legs had ended up on the couch, too. 

And then somewhere around episode nine and ten, they’d fallen asleep. Shifted around to better make room. Even in his sleep Chanyeol had the determination to take advantage of the situation and wrap himself around Junmyeon. He’s warm. Heavy. One of those huge sporting dogs that pretend they fit so nicely on their owner’s laps. 

In such a close proximity he can smell Chanyeol’s morning breath, but even that isn’t enough to make Junmyeon sit up. He relaxes again. Allows himself to enjoy being held close by someone as sweet as Chanyeol. Besides, soon the kid is going to wake up and do or say something idiotic, so he needs to enjoy this comfortable silence while he can. 

Junmyeon accidentally drifts back off to sleep, his eyes fluttering shut so the last thing he sees is Chanyeol’s face. 

 

☓

 

When both of them wake up on Sunday, Junmyeon makes Chanyeol pancakes to prove he can cook. He only burns three of them past the point of consumption and Chanyeol plows through the rest without complaining. Neither of them speak of the couch incident, but apparently it gives Chanyeol the gall to crush Junmyeon with a hug before he leaves. He has to head back to State and pick up his things that he left at his freshman-friend’s dorm room. 

February is the busiest time for Lachowski, Miller & Co. It’s the end of many business’ fiscal year, and it’s Junmyeon’s job to wrap up twelve months of his client’s chaos with the prettiest bow he can manage. Chanyeol sounds pouty every time they talk on the phone and Junmyeon has to tell him he’s too busy to meet him in the park. 

“It takes you two hours to get here, round-trip, and I’d only be able to see you for about half an hour, maybe less, before having to head back,” Junmyeon softly reasons with the kid. His boss peeks in his cubicle only to dump a box full of mangled files, the word “ASAP” written on the cardboard in red marker, on his desk.

“Half an hour is good. I’ll take it,” Chanyeol replies. Junmyeon gives a long sigh. 

“Not today, okay?”

Chanyeol doesn’t immediately answer. Junmyeon hefts the box next to the other ones all marked the same, then turns back to the two laptops that are open in front of him. 

“Okay.”

On one Saturday, Junmyeon is buried in work, sitting at his dining table. His brain is frazzled; hands shaking from getting only a couple hours of sleep and downing pot after pot of coffee. He would have gone back into the office this morning had the mere thought not made him want to scream. February makes that place feel like a prison. 

His phone vibrates, “Kid” flashing on the screen. 

“Hey,” he says after picking it up, propping it between his ear and shoulder as his fingers fly across the keyboard. 

“I’m outside your apartment. Come let me in.”

Junmyeon flinches, the phone clattering to the table as he hurriedly picks it back up.

“What?”

“What don’t you understand about it? Do you need me to give you a beginning, middle, and end for it to process?”  
“Chanyeol, I am running thin, here. My patience for sass is—”

“Yeah yeah, come let me into the building. I need some kind of code to get in and the security guard behind the glass doors in the lobby is ignoring me.”

Junmyeon presses the palm of his hand against his forehead then forcefully drags it down his face, tugging at skin. He hadn’t explicitly told Chanyeol not to come back to his apartment, but thought it had been obvious. Of course, nothing was ever obvious with Chanyeol. 

“That’s his job. To keep idiots out of the apartment complex.”

“Hey. I come bearing gifts. Don’t be rude.”

Junmyeon is so out of it that he tells Chanyeol the code instead of retrieving the kid himself. By the time he realizes that and slams his head against the table, there’s a knocking at the door. He opens it to see Chanyeol with plastic bags looped up both of his forearms, filled to the brim with containers. 

“He—ey,” Chanyeol says, the word breaking into two syllables as he takes in Junmyeon’s appearance. Junmyeon hasn’t showered or shaved. There’s dark circles beneath his eyes that look tender to the touch. He has on glasses that are slightly bent out of shape and sit a little askew on his nose. Chanyeol doesn’t know if Junmyeon knows that his shirt is inside-out, and decides not to mention it as he brushes past to set the bags on the counter. His arms are sore enough from taking inventory off the truck all morning at Harper’s, and carrying all the food on the metro to Junmyeon’s apartment was a workout within itself. “You’re pretty.”

“You have about thirty seconds to explain why you’re here before I throw you out of my window.”

“Pretty _and_ assertive. What a catch.” Junmyeon sends Chanyeol a glare that has him stepping on the other side of the island counter as he begins unpacking the items. “I just brought you food. You’ve been so busy that I figured you haven’t had a chance to properly eat, and you liked the spaghetti I made you, so…” Chanyeol trails off, pulling two different Tupperwear containers from the bag. One of them is filled with fruit, the other has kimchi. Chanyeol opens the kimchi, the spicy smell floating to Junmyeon and practically hooking him with an invisible finger. “I can’t take credit for this, though. Mrs. Lim is a goddess, as usual.”

Junmyeon finds himself taking a seat at the counter as Chanyeol pulls out bowls and forks like he owns the place. He plops kimchi into one of the bowls and hands it to Junmyeon, pushing the fruit container so it’s within his reach. As Junmyeon eats and mumbles his approval, slowly starting to feel human again, Chanyeol unpacks the rest of the bags. There’s steamed vegetables, apples, cooked chicken breasts, a bag of Peanut M &Ms that Junmyeon barely remembers mentioning he liked, one container of what looks like fetticcine alfredo and another that is some kind of shrimp soup. 

“These are from my mom’s restaurant,” Chanyeol says, brandishing one container in each hand before he puts it into Junmyeon’s fridge. “I stopped by there after work today, so they’re fresh, but you might want to eat them sooner rather than later.”

Junmyeon is lost for words, so he settles on stuffing his mouth with more fruit. He can’t tell if he’s so touched because he’s delirious by this point, or because Chanyeol really is one of the sweetest people he’s ever met. Probably both. 

“I promise I won’t stick around,” Chanyeol says, glancing at the massacre of papers and folders and computers on Junmyeon’s table. “Just long enough to finish some kimchi, then I’ll be out of your hair.”

He sits on a stool beside Junmyeon, taking off his snapback and putting it in his lap. He serves kimchi into his own bowl then stuffs his mouth full with it. Junmyeon watches him eat, equally amused and disgusted—as always—at the way he guzzles things down. 

“Thanks for bringing all this,” Junmyeon says, going back to work on eating his own bowl. “You didn’t have to.”

Chanyeol shrugs. “I know. But I wanted to. You sound really stressed out every time we talk. This isn’t much, but I figured it’d help.” 

He makes it sound so simple. Junmyeon smiles for the first time all week. He reaches over and gently squeezes the back of Chanyeol’s neck in what was meant to be a thanking gesture, but his hand lingers, thumb brushing at the hair at the nape of his head. 

Chanyeol’s skin breaks out in goosebumps as he slightly leans into the touch. His brain yips and sputters and tries to figure out its next move, but by the time his own thoughts are coherent again, Junmyeon has removed his hand and is scraping the bottom of his bowl. 

“You know,” Junmyeon carefully says, not looking at the kid as he pensively presses the prongs of the fork against his bottom lip, “Since you already came all this way, I guess it would be okay if you wanted to stick around a little bit.”

Chanyeol is so excited that chewed kimchi flies out of his mouth as he exclaims, “You’re serious?”

“No. Not anymore,” Junmyeon dryly replies as he wipes some of it off his cheek. Chanyeol covers his hand with the sleeve of his hoodie and reaches over, pushing Junmyeon’s hand away as he gauchely wipes at the spittle. “Lovely.”

“At your service.” Chanyeol retracts his hand and beams. “There.”

“But you have to promise me you won’t be loud. You can hang around, read, watch the TV on low, and _no bothering me_.”

“Deal.” Chanyeol contorts his face into as serious an expression as he can and nods. 

The kid ends up lounging around the living room as Junmyeon works. He plays with his phone, watches another couple episodes of the drama they started, and every now and then peers over the back of the couch at Junmyeon, all that’s visible are his eyes and snapback. Around seven, they eat again, the migrane that had settled over Junmyeon the past hour dissolving bit by bit as Chanyeol talks. About school. About Baekhyun. About that little girl he gives lessons to named Danah, the one who gave him that hideously ugly pin he proudly wears on his backpack.

After that, it’s back to work. Junmyeon hadn’t anticipated how nice it would be just to have him around. Comfortable. He tries his best to act like he’s completely forgotten Chanyeol is there, when truthfully a section of his brain remains focused on what he’s doing in the living room the entire time he’s working. When it gets late, Chanyeol tells Junmyeon not to worry about getting up when he says he has to leave, trudging to the door. 

“See you tomorrow?” Chanyeol asks. 

Junmyeon is too tired to think it over. “Yeah. But I still have to work, so it’ll have to be here.”

The apartment feels dreadfully empty—gutted—after the kid leaves. 

But it’s filled again the next day. Then the following Wednesday. Then two days later on Friday. Having Chanyeol there is like a burst of fresh air between the dives he takes into his deep sea of work. Opening his apartment door for Chanyeol turns into something familiar. He tries not to listen to the thought tugging at the back of his mind that he should feel scared by that.

With Junmyeon’s permission, Chanyeol starts bringing his guitar. He softly strums it on the couch, looking up tabs on his phone for new songs. Junmyeon doesn’t mind the sound. Something about it hums through him and makes his muscles relax the smallest bit, even when he’s dealing with a mess of errors from one of his clients. 

One evening, just as Chanyeol is about to put his guitar down to call and order Chinese delivery—per Junmyeon’s grumpy request when he arrived—he looks up to see Junmyeon staring at him. Really, any attention from the man is always welcome, but Chanyeol is surprised when he receives it unsolicited. 

“What?” he asks. 

Junmyeon blinks as he crashes back to earth. The bags under his eyes have only gotten worse, and he’s taken on an spacey quality that Chanyeol sometimes can’t pull him down from. One more week, and February will be over. Chanyeol can’t wait.

“You play really well,” Junmyeon says, looking a little ruffled as his hands reach for something, anything, to make it look like he hadn’t been distracted. 

Chanyeol checks the time on his phone. “It’s almost time for dinner, want to take a break, and I’ll show you how to strum a couple chords?”

“No thanks. You should just call for the food. My stomach feels like it’s starting to chew on itself.”

“But I’m super sexy when I teach older people guitar.” Chanyeol pouts. “I have super sexy guitar hands and a super sexy instructor voice and wow people with my super sexy skills.”

Junmyeon laughs, shakes his head and thinks, _I know, that’s exactly why I don’t want you to teach me_ , but says, “I’m just not interested in learning guitar.”

Which is a lie. Learning how to play has always been something he wanted to do, but he never really had the confidence to pick one up. Without even trying to play, he convinced himself that he was better off observing musical talent instead of floundering in his lack thereof. 

The last thing Junmyeon wants right now is this boy sitting behind him, Chanyeol’s calloused hands guiding his own across the frets, his low voice rumbling through Junmyeon’s bones. His resolve feels weak and malleable as is. Who knows what he’d do if Chanyeol got his way. 

“Fine,” Chanyeol grumbles as he snatches the Chinese menu off the table to find the right number. “All that sexiness gone to waste.”

It’s a couple days after that until Chanyeol has the time to come see Junmyeon again. After Junmyeon lets him in, he settles on the couch and opens up his backpack. Junmyeon is already clacking away on his keyboard as Chanyeol fishes his mom’s laptop and a hefty book his guidance counselor gave him out of his backpack. 

He puts the laptop on the coffee table, sitting crosslegged on the floor in front of it. Armed with a notebook and pencil, he opens to where he left off in _The Ultimate Scholarship Book 2014_ , then continues his lists. Chanyeol is so buried in his process that he doesn’t notice when the sound of clacking stops, or when Junmyeon leans over the back of the couch to see what he’s up to. 

“What are you doing?” Junmyeon asks. He rarely moves from his spot at the table when Chanyeol is over. His back aches all the way to his hips, bones pulsing with every heartbeat.

“Applying to every single scholarship in this book.” Chanyeol surprisingly doesn’t stop what he’s doing, patting the thick book with one hand and continuing to write with the other. “In school two days ago, there was an assembly for all seniors. Part of it was about breaking down college tuition, and how to plan ahead. And fuck me over, I knew it was going to be expensive, but I never put much thought into exact numbers.”

Junmyeon finds himself edging around the couch, sitting down on a cushion. Chanyeol turns his snapback backwards, his pink tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth as he copies down something off the computer screen. 

“State shouldn’t be too bad, comparatively.” Junmyeon stretches. “I know it feels intimidating at first, but taking out loans isn’t the end of the world. It helps cover what you can’t pay.”

Chanyeol sighs, his pencil pausing over the paper. “I know, but what I can’t pay is most of it. Everything included, I’m looking at about ten-thousand dollars per semester. From working at Harper’s since I was sixteen, I have about three-thousand saved up. That’s it.”

“Aren’t your parents going to help you out?” Junmyeon realizes that’s a dumb question as soon as he asks it. As independent as he was when he first went to college, both of his parents ended up taking care of paying back his loans after he graduated and the grace period ended. Not everyone was as lucky as him. 

“As much as they can. Which isn’t a lot.” Chanyeol goes back to writing, a small tint of pink building high on his cheeks. “We don’t, uh, have a lot of money. My dad used to own his own business, but it went under three years ago, so my parents are still trying to recover from all their losses. Yura actually got into some really nice universities when she graduated high school because she’s some freaky genius, but even with all the grants and scholarships that were offered, she still couldn’t afford to go anywhere but State.”

Chanyeol’s embarrassment makes Junmyeon squirm in his seat. 

“Anyway,” Chanyeol says, “I am definitely not a genius. I am—what’s that word that you called me last week when I knocked one of your laptops off the table?”

“A Neanderthal,” Junmyeon mumbles, the guilt increasing. 

“Yeah.” At least Chanyeol smiles over his shoulder at him, his eyes bright. “A Neanderthal. So my chances of winning out scholarships from the obvious places are slim. But my guidance counselor let me borrow this book, and she said the key is just to apply to everything. Even the ones that are like ‘draw a picture of something red then write a Haiku about it.’”

“That’s a thing?”

“An actual thing,” Chanyeol says, flipping back a couple pages in the book then showing the section to Junmyeon. Junmyeon leans forward, his face hovering near Chanyeol’s shoulder. “I didn’t know it, but there’s scholarships for everything. Luckily for me, there’s a whole section in here about music submissions through video. Stupid shit like writing a song about how much you love learning or revamping songs like Hot Cross Buns.”

“I shouldn’t have called you a Neanderthal,” Junmyeon blurts, making Chanyeol twitch in surprise. “You’re not stupid. Well, I mean, sometimes you do stupid things but—what I’m trying to say is that—you’re—uh—”

The corner of Chanyeol’s mouth slowly pulls up. Junmyeon didn’t know he’d gotten so close until his eyes snagged on the movement. “You’re so cute when you’re flustered. If I knew you wouldn’t strangle me on the spot, I’d kiss you right now.”

Junmyeon doesn’t know how Chanyeol manages to make something sound so lighthearted but heavy at the same time. His breath hitches, ending with him bursting into a coughing fit as he quickly pulls away. He’s still coughing as he kicks Chanyeol, who is amused enough to only half-heartedly block his foot as it comes at him again. 

“ _You_ ,” Junmyeon coughs, “can’t say that,” more coughing, “here.”

“Then where can I say it?” Chanyeol gets to his feet. Junmyeon gets ready to punch him if he moves any closer, but the kid breezes past him and goes to the kitchen. By the time he returns with a glass of water and hands it over, Junmyeon has stopped coughing, clearing his throat against the burn of the way his spit got caught in his windpipe. 

Junmyeon glares at him over the rim of the cup as he takes a sip. He puts the cup on the coffee table with a _clunk_ , thinking _Stupid, hormonal teenager_. He’s angry now, easily flipping through his emotions like cue cards because of the hectic month. He was trying to apologize and Chanyeol had to ruin it with another one of his stupid come-ons. His anger burns brighter when he sees the smug expression on Chanyeol’s face. It singes to know that Chanyeol thinks he came out on top.

“You want to kiss me?” he asks as Chanyeol flops to the couch. Chanyeol raises an eyebrow at him, then catches something new and unsettling in the way Junmyeon is looking at him. Junmyeon walks so he’s standing in front of him, between Chanyeol’s parted knees. 

“I…” Chanyeol says, not quite sure what’s happening. Whatever it is, instinct is making his blood pump faster, warming beneath his skin.

“I asked you if you really want to kiss me,” Junmyeon says in a low, thick voice. He slowly leans closer, placing his hands on either side of Chanyeol’s head so his arms bracket him against the couch. Chanyeol has to tilt his face up to look at him. There’s a dark gleam in Junmyeon’s eyes that he’s only caught glimpses of before. “You talk a lot of goddamn shit, you know that?”

Chanyeol’s wide eyes would be comical if Junmyeon wasn’t so on edge. Chanyeol doesn’t know whether to apologize or wrap his arms around Junmyeon’s neck and bring him closer. Either decision isn’t going to happen, because his limbs are as deadweight as his lips, like some doe in the headlights. 

Junmyeon lifts one of his hands, using his finger to trace down the column of Chanyeol’s neck. Chanyeol gulps in a shaky breath, his Adam’s apple bobbing. 

_He’s responsive_ , the back of Junmyeon’s mind dimly registers. They’re close now. As close as that morning Junmyeon woke up in Chanyeol’s arms. 

“You can’t just say whatever the fuck you want,” Junmyeon continues, pressing his finger against the center of Chanyeol’s chest. Chanyeol’s mouth parts on an exhale. “Think you’re some hotshot because you’re eighteen. But if I let you kiss me and I took you in my bedroom and we played this game like the adult you’re pretending to be, I bet I could make you never want to say any of those little quips again.”

Chanyeol wonders how it’s possible to be so terrified but turned on at the same time. As confusing as it is to figure out if Junmyeon is dirty talking him, or trying to scare him, his dick twitches in interest. It’s never been concerned with the technicalities.

The air is palpable between them. Little pieces of panic wedge their way through Junmyeon’s angry vengeance and wave red warning flags. He did this impulsively to gain back control, but now his muscles are itching to touch Chanyeol more and that feels like the _opposite_ of what he wants. And now Chanyeol is looking at him, his pupils slowly widening, not giving the reaction that Junmyeon thought he would. He inwardly startles as Chanyeol speaks.

“Maybe.” Somehow Chanyeol’s voice comes out even lower: raspy and dry. “Maybe not. We could always find out.”

The red warning flags turn to blinking red lights behind Junmyeon’s eyelids, _ABORT ABORT_. 

Junmyeon lifts the hand that was near Chanyeol’s chest and uses it to jarringly tap the kid’s cheek a couple times. It successfully snaps the moment in half. Chanyeol’s eyes squish shut at the impact, it’s just hard enough to sting, and when he opens them, Junmyeon has pulled away. 

“Not gonna happen, Chanyeol,” Junmyeon says, pleased with how even and gruff it sounded. 

Chanyeol blinks around the room, looking like he was just dropped to the couch out of the sky. “What…just…why did you—”

“I’m starving.” Junmyeon lands on the couch beside Chanyeol, trying to seem as nonchalant as possible as his blood cools to its normal temperature. That was the worst idea he’s had to date, and luckily Chanyeol seems too out of it to argue as he says, “Hurry up and call to order us some food. We can watch another episode of the drama while we wait.”

When Chanyeol gets back home that night, he decides that Junmyeon was just trying to punish him. It’s insane, Chanyeol thinks, that Junmyeon can switch from being so charming and lovely and into this…this _man_ who makes Chanyeol’s toes curl just by a simple gleam in his eye. It’s not fair. Chanyeol is practically putty in his hands whenever he wants. He wishes he had that much control over Junmyeon.

Chanyeol clonks upstairs to his room. He’s barely gotten out of his coat when he hears his Mom call, “Chanyeol, sweetie?” from his parents’ room down the hall. He goes to her. She’s sitting propped up in her bed, a book in her lap, and reaches out a hand to him. 

Chanyeol settles on the edge of the mattress, taking her hand in both of his. It’s weird. Chanyeol still sees his parents exactly like he did when he was little—the same vivacious smiles, bright eyes—so when he looks closer at little moments like this, turning his Mom’s hand over so the diamond on her wedding band sparkles, it doesn’t seem right the way her veins are more pronounced, skin starting to wrinkle along the joints of her fingers. 

“Where were you tonight?” Mrs. Park softly asks. It’s almost ten o’clock. Soon his dad will be heading upstairs and it’ll be time to go to bed.

“The guys and I took the bus to the big arcade a district over,” Chanyeol replies. It’s partly a truth. His friends _did_ all go to the arcade tonight, he wasn’t there with them. For skipping out, he had to go bowling with them this Friday and buy everyone a round of cheesy fries. 

“Sounds like fun.” Mrs. Park yawns, and Chanyeol has the urge to throw himself into her arms, press his face into her shoulder like he did when he was a kid, and wail how this was the hundredth time he’s lied to her since becoming tied. He hated it. Hating not being open with his parents, who were always so encouraging and loving no matter what he did. 

There was a reason he’d so easily gotten away with seeing Junmyeon. For years before becoming tied, Chanyeol was always running around with his friends. Their house was incredibly small, and the city was a never-ending playground, so it wasn’t so strange when Chanyeol was gone for the day and rolled in just before his curfew. He needed to constantly check in with texts, or fill them in where he was when he got home, but the only time he wasn’t allowed to go out was when he was being punished. 

But he still can’t tell them. His _Akaito_ is a ridiculous mystery. Just when he thinks he’s making some sort of progress, Junmyeon twists it all up into an indecipherable mess. Like tonight. He knows what will happen when his parents find out, and right now he can’t take their added interference with something he can barely figure out by himself. 

Chanyeol talks with his mom for a little bit, their voices murmuring and low, then he leans in so she can give him a kiss on the cheek, and leaves the room as his dad walks in. 

“Ah! So I _do_ have a son!” his dad exclaims, patting him on the back as they pass. “I was beginning to think you were a figment of my imagination.”

Chanyeol rolls his eyes. “I’ll be home tomorrow for dinner. By the end of the night, you’ll be so sick of me, you’ll _wish_ I was a figment of your imagination.”

Mr. Park turns to his wife. “For the record, I’m blaming you for how lippy our children turned out.”

“Sure, honey,” Mrs. Park coos just to placate him. “Now come to bed. I’m exhausted.”

They all trade “goodnights,” and soon, Chanyeol is tucked away in his bed, all the lights off as he stares at his ceiling. He can’t stop thinking about Junmyeon, which is normal, but what is not normal is the way he can still feel Junmyeon’s finger against his neck. He feels shaken all over again as he remembers the heat of Junmyeon’s eyes. He said something about taking Chanyeol into his _bedroom_ , and his mind goes wild with images of what that could have entailed. It’s easy for those thoughts to wrap around him, playing clear in front of his eyes against the dark. 

Chanyeol groans, rubbing the heels of his palms against his eyes like that’ll get rid of it, but it doesn’t work. He tries focusing. Ignoring the stirring in his boxers. But all he can see and feel and think of is Junmyeon Junmyeon Junmyeon.

Defeated, he reaches into the drawer of the stand by his bed, grabbing a little container of lotion he lifted from Yura’s room, and a couple tissues. He’s a little annoyed as he slides his hand beneath the waistband of his underwear, giving himself a couple strokes. 

It’s not fair that he can barely touch his own _Akaito_. It’s not fair that his _Akaito_ can tease him and all Chanyeol ends up with is his own hand. He hates that he’s tied to someone who he wants to do _all the things_ to, who only gets frustrated and angry when he tries to chip away at his resilience. 

Chanyeol speeds up, putting all of his energy in being as quiet as possible. Does Junmyeon even think of him? Then he comes to an abrupt halt as a horrifying thought pops into his head: what if the thread will let Junmyeon know just what he's doing? Is there a special vibration that will hum through, alerting his _Akaito_ that he's fapping off to him? He knows it’s a ridiculous thought—no way that’s what happens—but he finds himself stretching his mind to think of other material to use. Just in case.

It doesn’t work. As he bites into his lip, back of his head pressing deeper into his pillow as he reaches the final stretch, all he sees is Junmyeon. 

Across town, Junmyeon comes down from his orgasm and hits the wall of the shower. 

“Shit,” he breathes, steam encompassing him. At the very last second, his brain decided to switch from his favorite underwear model to Chanyeol. Junmyeon feels dirtier than before stepping in the shower. 

At the end of this week, his work schedule will be back to normal. Hopefully his brain resettles into a proper wavelength soon and he doesn’t have to go to bed thoroughly disliking himself like this. 

 

☓

 

“It sounds like this is more of _your_ issue, not Chanyeol’s,” Minseok says the next day in the breakroom at Lachowski, Miller  & Co. Junmyeon just finished recanting his error of the previous night, tactfully omitting some more embarrassing details.

Junmyeon scoffs. Is at a loss of words. Scoffs again. 

“Look.” Minseok leans over the table they’re both seated at, idly circling his stirrer through the coffee in his styrofoam cup. “Yeah, Chanyeol is in high school. I get why it’s strange—why it goes against your instinct to accept that this guy is your soulmate. But this isn’t about him. It’s about you, and where you choose to draw the line. You have to be clear about it, too. Or else both of you are just going to end up confused and frustrated and things are going to start falling apart.”

“Well isn’t that what things always do?” Junmyeon bitterly asks. Minseok grabs a plain donut hole from the box on the table and throws it at Junmyeon. “What?”  
“This month has messed with your head. Stop. I know with your track record, that’s an easy—cowardly—thing for you to think, but it still pisses me off that you have an _Akaito_ who is the personification of every reason why you need to try to believe in something again, and you’re still fighting against it with every fiber of your being.” Minseok throws another donut hole at him for good measure. “So what. You want to have sex with your _Akaito_ —”

“I didn’t say—” Junmyeon stiffens in his seat.

“He’s attractive. He’s funny. He’s sma—well, he’s smart in his own way. Boohoo. It’s certainly not the first time someone realized that they’re _falling for the person that they’re tied to_.”

“Minseok, I’m _not_ —”

Minseok is on a roll now. “I get it. You’re scared. But you need to either set solid guidelines for your relationship, keeping in mind some sort of endgame to when you’ll actually allow yourself to accept that you have feelings for the kid, or the next time you see him rip down his pants and take all your aggressions out. There can’t be an in-between if you don’t want to end up hurting him.”

Neither of them noticed one of their coworkers at the coffee machine. She gently clears her throat, making both of their shoulders jerk in surprise. Junmyeon feels his whole body flush in embarrassment as she gives a small smile and says, “I know it’s none of my business, but I’d go with the second option.”

She turns on her heel and walks out of the breakroom. 

“Oh God,” Junmyeon says as Minseok starts laughing. He puts his face in his hands, feeling another donut thunk against his chest.

“Oops, shit,” he hears Minseok say. When he looks up, there’s a smattering of white powder on the table in front of him. It leads to a puff of white on his chest, and a sugar powdered donut in his lap. “Sorry. Accidentally grabbed the wrong one.”

 

☓

 

“Graduation,” Junmyeon states. 

“Graduation,” Chanyeol echoes, not knowing what it means. The two of them are sitting at opposite ends of Junmyeon’s empty dining table. Junmyeon has his hands clasped on the surface in front of him, his shoulders stiff and straight.

“Give me three months, until you graduate in May.”  
“Three months for what?”

“To evaluate our thread-thing.”

“Being each other’s _Akaito_ ,” Chanyeol flatly corrects. 

“The biggest problem for me, right now, is that you’re still in high school. Maybe when things like ‘homeroom’ and ‘detention’ aren’t part of your daily vocabulary, I can start seeing you as more of an adult.”

“I wouldn’t say it so often if my stupid homeroom teacher would stop giving me detention every day.” Chanyeol grumpily crosses his arms. 

“ _She wouldn’t give you detention so much if you just wouldn’t fall asleep during_ —focus. I need to figure out what I want. To do that, I have to be able to get past the age thing. So you graduating would be a good first step.” Junmyeon feels better explaining it pragmatically: organizing and flipping through his words like notecards instead of having to navigate the problematic gush of emotions. 

“A _first_ step? What has everything up to this point been?” Chanyeol asks with a hint of exasperation. 

“Me ricocheting around and making many terrible decisions.” Junmyeon gives a humorless smile.

Chanyeol sighs and turns his snapback backwards on his head. “So some stupid piece of paper I’ll get at the end of May will make you feel better about seeing me.”

“It’ll begin to,” Junmyeon admits. “It’s not a promise, or an exact yes or no, but it’s important that I have a little more space. At least until you’re not a high schooler anymore.”

“All there is between us is space.” Chanyeol gestures at the span of the table between them.

“Yeah. Because you knowing the code to enter my apartment complex _and_ front door reeks of boundaries.”

“At least I knock before I walk in,” Chanyeol says. Junmyeon raises an eyebrow at him. “Most of the time. Sometimes.”

“What I’m saying, Chanyeol,” Junmyeon says, trying to keep the kid on track, “is that I don’t think you should come here anymore.”

Chanyeol hadn’t exactly been pleased when Junmyeon told him they “needed to talk” as soon as he walked into the apartment, then steered him to the table like they were going to have some sort of meeting, but what was left of the amused glimmer in his eyes completely dulls out. It makes Junmyeon nervous, so he charges ahead.

“It’s hard for me to think about what I really want, when you’re so close. Especially when you’re close to me _in my home_. It almost feels impossible for me to try and keep boundaries that I set so I wouldn’t be indecisively stringing you along. It’s not fair to you.”

Disappointment strikes Chanyeol low in his gut. Because _he_ wants Junmyeon. Desperately. More than anything he ever wanted before, in a way he never knew was possible. And Junmyeon has to _think_ about it.

“How nice of you to choose what is and isn’t fair to me.”

Junmyeon hates the dull way Chanyeol says it. He knew this wasn’t going to be easy, but is still instinctively upset that he’s making Chanyeol unhappy. 

“I’m doing my best.”

Chanyeol’s eyes flash in an angry way that Junmyeon hasn’t seen before. “What you’re doing is making everything ten times more complicated than it needs to be.”

“Listen, I’m glad you think you have everything figured out at eighteen, but just remember that while you were going through elementary, junior high, and high school, only worried about video games and how to hide crusty socks from your mom, I was out in the real world.” Junmyeon frowns, gripping his fingers tighter.

“Oh. The real world. I didn’t know that I was in the fake one all this time.”

“Chanyeol—”

“Stop acting like my opinion is shit because of my age. You’re being an asshole,” Chanyeol snaps, effectively zapping Junmyeon’s patience. This is hard enough. The notecards are blown away by an unplanned gust of frustration. 

“You’re in a bubble, kid. When I was eighteen, I didn’t have a thread. I had parents who were _Akaito_ and hated each other’s guts. They were fated but my mom was busy starting over with a new family and my dad was busy working overtime, bending his secretaries over a desk. I had a string of boys who promised everything and gave nothing. I never even had a chance to experience that fantasy _Akaito_ world that you live in.”

Chanyeol tries to keep the surprise from tweaking his expression. It’s the most Junmyeon has ever said about his past. 

Junmyeon can’t seem to stop himself from unraveling more. “While you were experiencing recess and gym and detention, I have been left,” Junmyeon slowly says, “by almost everyone I’ve loved. Not only have I seen even the best of _Akaitos_ fall apart the past thirteen years, the red thread effectively ended all of my relationships. So go ahead, tell me again, with your vast knowledge of how the world works, that I’m making this ‘more complicated than it needs to be.’”

Silence thuds on the table between them. Chanyeol’s expression has softened. Seconds sludge by, until he quietly says, “Junmyeon—”

Junmyeon can hear something in Chanyeol’s voice that makes his skin crawl. He holds up his hand to stop him. “I don’t want sympathy, okay? I want three months. I’ve obviously got a lot of shit to work through, and the last thing that I want to do is hurt you during that process.”

“I understand.” Chanyeol tilts his head down, his tail between his legs. 

“Do you?”

“Not—really.” Chanyeol chews on his top lip. “But I want you to be happy. I like you a lot and I really want this to work, so I’ll do whatever it takes until you get there.”

_Fuck_ , Junmyeon thinks. The impulse to cross to the other side of the table and wrap Chanyeol in his arms is almost overwhelming. His throat tightens as he says, “I…might not. Get there.”

Chanyeol can’t even begin to process the thought of not being able to be with Junmyeon. It makes him queasy. 

Junmyeon can hear Chanyeol’s next shaky breath. He has to say something—he shouldn’t, he should leave it at that—and blurts, “I really like you, too. A lot. I get why we’re tied. Because sometimes you make my head all muddled and things get increasingly confusing when I can’t make good decisions because all I can think about is touching you more, getting closer.”

Chanyeol’s head shoots back up. He’s only a decibel away from yelling as he says, “You like me? You want to _touch_ me?”

“Uh. Yeah.” Regret. Such deep, overwhelming regret. Chanyeol is supposed to be the one who can’t keep his mouth shut, not him. 

“Like,” Chanyeol leans forward over the table, his eyes wide as he scrutinizes Junmyeon’s face. “ _Touch_ -me touch me?”

Junmyeon can feel the blush working its way beneath his cheeks. He gruffly sniffs but has to look away. “See? That’s not exactly something an adult would say. I don’t see how it’s—”

“Oh, it’s _important_.”

Junmyeon shifts in his chair, debating whether it would be easier to throw himself out of the window instead of maneuver his way out of this. 

“A tiny, minuscule bit.” When he looks up again, Chanyeol is softly smiling. The glimmer is back. 

“I’m going to pretend that you didn’t look like you were about to vomit as you admitted that,” Chanyeol says, turning his hat back around.

“Well you’re not going to hear me say it again anytime soon. Store it away during these next couple months.”

“Graduation.”

Junmyeon nods. “Graduation.”

 

☓

 

Later that night, Chanyeol plays The Number Game. He draws a small table graph, comparing his age to Junmyeon’s over the past fifteen years. 

When Junmyeon was twenty-eight, he was fifteen, going through a growth spurt that made him a twiggy, sweaty mess. When Junmyeon was twenty-five, he was twelve, constantly in trouble with his orthodontist for getting gum stuck in his braces. Twenty-two and nine. Twenty and seven. And when Junmyeon was eighteen, going through his “string of boys”—jealousy spikes through Chanyeol’s spine at the thought—Chanyeol was five years old: a kindergartener who ate dirt to make other kids laugh and couldn’t grasp the concept of how to write upper case Rs, while his _Akaito_ was out on sexcapades.

He hadn’t been concerned with the numbers before. Junmyeon had always gone on about his age and being a high schooler and _blah blah blah_ , but he’d brushed past the details. Thought they didn’t matter. 

As he crumples up the paper and chucks it into the depths of his closet, he begrudgingly sighs. Junmyeon has a point. A very very tiny one that is insignificant and barely matters in the grand scheme of things. But a point, nonetheless. 

If Junmyeon wants space, Chanyeol will give him space. He’ll show the man just how adult he can be, complying and carrying out his wishes no matter how goddamn ridiculous they are. 

Chanyeol gets out his phone, opening up the calendar and opening up the date marked May 18th. 

“Mother…fucking…adult…time…bitch,” he mumbles to himself as he types it out, then saves. 

Three months. Chanyeol can do it, because Junmyeon likes him. And Junmyeon wants to touch him. So things are going to be okay. 

 

☓

 

“Are you okay?”

Chanyeol stops playing his guitar mid-strum, looking up at Danah as the sound of the last chord dissolves into the room. She was supposed to be listening to him play the piece she’d be learning for Harper’s annual spring recital, but her mind is obviously elsewhere. 

“What?” Chanyeol asks. 

Danah pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “You look sad today.”

“No I don’t.” Chanyeol gives her a big, cheesy grin, just for show. He thought it would make her smile, but if anything, her shrewd expression deepens. “Why would I be sad? I’m hanging out with you, playing guitar. Those are some of my favorite things.”

“Something’s wrong.”

Chanyeol finds it hard to keep the smile on his face. Kids are great, but also kind of creepy in how easily they can pick up on things. They see things straight; not as complicated.

He _is_ sad, has been all week since leaving Junmyeon’s apartment for the last time until graduation. He hates the new parameters Junmyeon placed around their relationship.

But, he couldn’t very well tell eight year-old Danah that his _Akaito_ told him not to come over to his apartment for now, or that no touching was allowed, not even the little sneaky ones that he thought Junmyeon hadn’t noticed. So he simply says, “Boyfriend troubles.”

Danah somberly nods, like she understands. “Want to talk about it?”

This time, when Chanyeol smiles, it’s much more genuine.

“Nah. I’ll be fine. _Anyway_. We only have a little time left, so we should get back to work.” Chanyeol watches with hidden amusement as Danah heaves a sigh.

“I don’t think I’m gonna be able to learn this before the recital,” she says, fidgeting with the new sheet music on the stand in front of her. Chanyeol has seven students altogether, and all of them, along with the high schoolers and adults who take lessons, are required to take part in the recital. Harper’s rents out Quincy High’s auditorium for one night. The crowd is usually only a couple puddles of people, barely taking up the first couple rows, but they make a big, fancy production of it. 

“Hey.” Chanyeol mindlessly strums a couple chords on his guitar. “I wouldn’t have chosen this piece for you if I didn’t think you could do it. Besides, remember how you didn’t think you’d be able to figure out the last one I gave you?”

Danah crinkles her nose, seeing where Chanyeol is going with this. “No.”

“Oh, you don’t? Because last time I checked, you played that song for me last week like some sort of guitar deity.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“The best. And do you remember how you learned to play it so well?”

“No.”

“One day,” Chanyeol says, tilting his head so they’re eye-level, “at a time. Just like you’re going to do with this new one.”

Danah makes another face, but straightens in her chair. “Fine. Play it for me one more time.”

“Yes ma’am.”

 

☓

 

Minseok easily dodges the rubber band ball Junmyeon throws at him. It thunks against the wall of Junmyeon’s cubicle then soars to his desk, knocking over all of his golf miniatures with a loud clash. 

Minseok laughs as Junmyeon swears, the two of them picking up the mess. “What? I just said I was surprised that you chose the first option.”

“Do you not have any faith in me at all?” Junmyeon whisper-hisses, glancing at the opening of his cubicle and hoping his boss didn’t hear the noise. 

“I do, which is exactly why I thought you were going to go with option two.”

“Yeah, what is it that you said? Rip down his pants and—”

“—and take your aggressions out. Yes.” Minseok raises an eyebrow at a particularly ugly plastic painted golfer and sets it upright. “I know you think depriving yourself is noble and smart at this point, but you’ve let it build up to an agonizing pressure already. Getting so close then pulling away can’t be good for you.”

“You don’t know anything about depravation. You met your _Akaito_ when you were twenty-two. She was your first girlfriend, right?”

Minseok nods. “First everything. I was a pretty timid guy until she came along. But that doesn’t invalidate what I know: an _Akaito_ is a blessing.”

“That’s beautiful,” Junmyeon teases. Minseok narrows his eyes and knocks over a couple of the miniatures they just put back. “Hey!” 

“Shut up. Don’t you have a meeting to get to?”

Junmyeon checks the time on his watch. One of his clients wants to meet at the café down the street. Two weeks have passed since February’s nightmare, and it’s usually about this time when he starts getting his first feedback. It’s not strange to have meetings with individual clients, but it’s strange that they want to meet him outside of Lachowski, Miller  & Co. 

Junmyeon ends up arriving early at the café, trying to focus and not think about the times he and Chanyeol had come inside to warm themselves. The kid has been cooperative, so far, which is as confusingly worrying as it is relieving.

His apartment feels deathly empty, especially when he can’t look at anything and not think of Chanyeol touching it or cleaning it or draped across it. Like every morning as he heats up oatmeal, he stares at the circle of white in his wall that used to be a hole. He can easily picture Chanyeol standing there with the spackle paste and knife he borrowed from his dad.

“Look!” Chanyeol had said, a proud smile on his face as he pointed at the wall, “I filled in your hole!” Then the innuendo of his statement hit him and his eyes crinkled as he barely managed to repress a low “ _huu huu huu_ ” chuckle.

Junmyeon is still smiling, thinking about it, as his client’s representative takes a seat across from him. She’s only a little older than him, but her brown hair is streaked with gray, swirling around the bun tied at the back of her head. They go through the regular pleasantries. Junmyeon buys her a coffee and they talk about the weather until she opens her briefcase and pulls out a three ring binder. 

“My bosses were very impressed with your work this year,” the woman says, folding her delicate hands over the binder. She’s part of the management sector at a company that distributes medical supplies. Junmyeon has been doing business with her for the past four years, ever since his last promotion. “Especially with all of the mess and confusion that happened last summer: your reports and filings smoothed out very impressive knots.”

“Thank you,” Junmyeon says. “It was nothing.” It was definitely something. Working through that had been a slow death. 

The woman clears her throat, glancing around the room. She leans a little closer across the table. “I don’t want to cut into too much of your day, so I’ll get straight to the point. One of my bosses has been building up his own clientele within the medical community of a couple districts south of here. He is considering breaking away from the company and starting his own, more privatized business.”

Junmyeon knows nothing about distributing medical supplies, but suddenly it made sense why he was asked to meet this woman out of Lachowski, Miller & Co. Especially with the bigger businesses that his clients ran, it could be considered a form of sabotage to secretly create your own rapport and split into a new company. 

“I, of course,” the woman continues, “would be following him out of the company, along with a couple other of my associates who have worked beneath him. My boss has been keeping an eye on your work the past couple years, and asked me to make you a privatized offer to act as our head accountant.”

“Oh.” Junmyeon almost spills coffee on himself. He tries to look calm as he puts his mug back down. _He_ could get fired if anyone at LM &Co. found out he was even meeting someone about leaving his position for another business. He’s not allowed to do private dealings: everything concerning his job has to be consulted through the company. 

“Your complete discretion would be appreciated. Take this.” She pushes the binder across the table. “All of the information needed for you to consider the position is inside, along with my number and email should you have any questions. We understand that it is a big decision, especially with the first annual estimate coming in a little lower than what you’re used to dealing with, so we are giving you two months to make your decision.”

“Right, I’m not sure if—” 

“Take the binder, and think it over. Any consideration on your part is not commitment written in stone. With your irrefutable prowess, I find it criminal that your superiors have kept you deadlocked in the same position. With this job, you would be your own boss, and over a five-year arc, we’re projecting figures that would be double of what you make right now.”

In the end, Junmyeon ends up taking the binder, having to stop and hide it in the trunk of his car before returning to work. As terrible as it is, he’s already considering it. Dealing with one single company would be a lot easier, and when he peeked at some of the numbers, he’d definitely be making much more money after the company got on its feet. 

_If_ it got on its feet. It was a risk, to leave a secure company for one that was just starting out. Not to mention if he left, he’d never be able to get his job back at LM &Co—probably wouldn’t be able to get as good an accounting job at any other firm after “betraying” his last. Projections are great, but they rarely work out as planned. 

It was another thing to think about. Another thing that needed mediation and would undoubtedly steal the last hours of sleep Junmyeon managed to get when he wasn’t fretting over his _Akaito_. He must have flipped back and forth a thousand times already, staring at his ceiling, going from thinking _screw it_ and calling Chanyeol over to groaning as he remembered how stupid that would be. 

Junmyeon can’t remember at what point in his life he became such a fucking mess.

 

☓

 

February sludges into March. The cold bite is out of the air, exchanged with the smell of earth beginning to thaw. Junmyeon and Chanyeol try and settle back into their old routines, but everything feels displaced. Without each other, even in their own houses, they have a feeling like all of their furniture has been moved two inches to the left.

They’ve been talking on the phone. Sometimes it’s only for ten minutes when Chanyeol is waiting for his next student at Harper’s. Other times Chanyeol calls Junmyeon around six and it lasts for hours, Junmyeon eventually going about his nighttime routine with Chanyeol on speakerphone before cuddling into his bed. Either way, it never feels like enough. There’s still two months to go, and Junmyeon feels wobbly—precariously close to tipping over an edge that could land him on either side. 

It still seems safer than the alternative. Every time Chanyeol brings up seeing each other—meeting at their bench in the park, going for a movie, even just sharing some food—Junmyeon dodges it. His reply is always met with Chanyeol grumbling something incomprehensible on the other end, but when he asks him to repeat it clearer, Chanyeol innocently says, “Nothing.”

But today during their talk, while Junmyeon is poring over the three ring binder for the hundredth time, Chanyeol is determined to break through the last little barrier Junmyeon is clinging to.

“So since I’m giving you space, or whatever, don’t you think I should get something in return?”

“This does not sound promising.” Junmyeon sighs, shutting the binder. 

Lately he’d been trying to put all of his energy into making a decision about work. He thought it would distract him from worrying about Chanyeol too much, but it had begun to spur something terrifying. When considering the cons of the new job being unreliable, he gets nervous at the thought of not having a steady income while Chanyeol goes to State. At the pros, if it does work out and he makes bank, he likes the thought of being able to help Chanyeol with the loans he’ll be saddled with over the next four years. 

What does he want? Junmyeon doesn’t even know and he’s planning some sort of future with the kid. Or, a small voice in the back of his head nudges him, maybe that’s his answer. 

“I want to know more about you,” Chanyeol says. “I want to know more about your parents, how they were _Akaito_ but didn’t end up together. I want you to tell me about what it was like when you went to college. And why you went through a string of guys—”

“Remembered that part perfectly, didn’t you?” Junmyeon mumbles.

“—and the idiots who loved you then left you and made it so that sometimes getting you to open up feels impossible and results in me bargaining for you to give something back since I’m giving you space.”

“Chanyeol,” Junmyeon says, slightly overwhelmed at the thought of it. There’s only a couple people—his closest college buddies and Minseok—who know about those key points of his personal life, and that was something that was slowly, _slowly_ gained over years of friendship and trust. “That’s…I mean that is a lot of material. Lots of time spent with therapists already going over it.”

“It’s a good thing we have until my graduation then, isn’t it?”

Junmyeon doesn’t know why he puts up a fight. Chanyeol always has a way of getting what he wants. 

That night, they talk about his parents. Junmyeon starts out hesitantly, but soon enough he’s forgetting every reason why he wanted to keep it to himself and it flows out of his mouth. 

He tells Chanyeol how his parents, for all intents and purposes, were perfect for each other. Still are. His mom is needy and thrives on attention: operates off of praise and tiny things like people noticing when she gets her hair trimmed. His dad pays perfect attention to detail, and uses it to boast and show off. 

Junmyeon has spotty memories of days when they were in sync, back around the time he was four and five. His mom would put all of her effort into their backyard garden, then his father would loudly brag about it to their friends at church. His mom would use a new recipe for the icing on her infamous sugar cookies, and his dad would notice mid-bite then happily guess what the new ingredients were. 

They played perfectly to each other’s strengths and weaknesses. _Akaito_ to the core. But there came a time when Junmyeon’s mom started _needing_ to keep up with the ladies in their neighborhood, constantly eyeing their new drapes and jewelry and how _their_ kids were enrolled in piano lessons. To keep up with her, his dad started being more competitive at work for a position of higher income. It ended in him starting to pay more attention to the details of his job instead of his wife. 

At least, that’s what Junmyeon has gathered from his parents constantly complaining about each other. He doesn’t remember those details. He remembers things like not seeing his dad for days—struggling to stay awake until his dad got home only to open his eyes the next morning and find he was already gone. His mom crying in her garden, blaming it on the pollen from her flowers. He remembers his parents fighting under their breath on the way to church. On the way to his piano recital. The muffled noise of their fighting through the walls of their house when they thought he couldn’t hear them. 

It lasted for a while, building and spiraling and becoming a monster of a problem. By the time they reached a breaking point, Junmyeon was thirteen. At that point, he can clearly remember the day his mom left. How she had packed seven suitcases of her things and somehow fit them all into her little red convertible. She was crying, and this time she didn’t bother to blame it on the pollen. Junmyeon had sat on the bed in her own room as she carded her fingers through his hair and said, “I have to go. I did something that made your father very mad and he’s making me leave.”

Junmyeon wasn’t as naive as his parents thought. He’d seen glimpses of the men his mother would bring home. Sometimes he’d be two blocks away, walking home from school, when he’d see a stranger speed walk to a car parked in his driveway, looping his arms through a jacket before zooming away. Junmyeon’s dad barely looked at his mom anymore, so she found men who would.

“It doesn’t,” Chanyeol says as Junmyeon brings an end to his rant, “make sense. Why would you hurt someone who you’re tied to? They were perfect for each other.”

“Yeah.” Junmyeon’s throat feels scratchy from talking so much. He sinks further into his couch, hugging the binder close against his chest like a pillow. “People are fucked up, Chanyeol. Flawed, everyone. In my parent’s case, they were both too prideful.”

“But the string means—”

“The string means two people who are meant to be together. It doesn’t mean that _Akaito_ won’t disappoint each other, or make mistakes, or hurt each other past the point of wanting to try and stay together anymore. The string gives us our soul mates, but it’s how we choose to listen, or act on it, that determines our fate. Never a guarantee.”

Chanyeol becomes quiet, at that.

 

☓

 

Chanyeol remains infallibly optimistic through the phone calls with Junmyeon. When Junmyeon breaks into stories of his college years, carefully stepping through parts of when he was eighteen, he eventually gets to his first serious boyfriend.

Talking about it brings those days back in sharp quality—the times he thought that he’d found the person he wanted to be with for the rest of his life. He was in college, dating a boy with a delicious smile who had strong arms that he’d use to pull Junmyeon snug against his chest. They figured they were soul mates—they loved each other so much, how could they not be?—their strings just hadn’t arrived yet. 

The two of them planned their future life together between classes, cramming at the café for finals, and drinks at the bar. After dating for three years, Junmyeon figured that there would come a morning when he’d wake up and see a shimmering red thread laying on the mattress between them. 

That morning did come. At the end of his junior year, he woke to find his boyfriend propped against the pillows, staring at his pinky with wide eyes. 

Junmyeon looked at his own pinky, and found he was not at the other end of it.

It was sickening, how it seemed to almost invalidate every moment he and his boyfriend had shared. Their promises and hopes, all crumbling. 

Junmyeon tells Chanyeol how his boyfriend stuck around for a couple weeks. How he told him he didn’t care about meeting his _Akaito_ , because they loved each other with every fiber of their being, right? Both of them knew the red thread wasn’t the be-all, end-all. 

But things were different. There was some kind of invisible divide deepening between them; a distant look that his boyfriend would sometimes get in his eyes when he was standing in their kitchen, or sifting through his calculus textbook. 

Junmyeon knew he was going to leave, the question was when. That didn’t stop him from clutching onto their relationship. He dramatically kissed him every chance he got. Dug his nails into his hips so hard it drew blood when they fucked, leaving his mark. Held hands even at raucous frat parties. 

But every scramble to steady himself against his boyfriend felt more like a goodbye. 

One month later, he was gone. Junmyeon drowned in his first heartbreak.

Chanyeol gulps, kicks at a crack in the sidewalk. He and his friends are at a _noraebang_ , Baekhyun bribing them to come along to impress some of the girls he’s in chorus with. When he saw Junmyeon’s name flash across the screen of his phone half an hour ago, he slipped outside while Baekhyun belted _I Kissed a Girl_ by Katy Perry and suggestively wiggled his eyebrows at his pick of the group. 

“That sucks,” Chanyeol says. 

“It does. But it taught me a lot, you know? I had to experience it.”

Chanyeol is uncomfortable how clinical Junmyeon sounds about it. His own heart is clenching at the thought of Junmyeon in so much pain—how rough it must have been to go through.

“What did it teach you?” Chanyeol asks. Junmyeon takes his time replying. Chanyeol leans against the brick exterior of the building, looking at the gray skies overhead. The preface to spring is always muddy and dark in the city.

“That things go on,” Junmyeon replies. “It may not feel like it, but the next day comes, and then the next, and eventually you find that your earth isn’t nearly as shattered as you thought it was.”

 

☓

 

When Minseok offered to take Chanyeol somewhere in an effort to keep the kid’s spirits up, he didn’t think that he would choose laser tag. Twenty-nine years old, he feels like the biggest douche of all douches as he straps into a vest next to a group of kids celebrating a tenth birthday party. A girl directly beside him struggles with one of the clasps on her vest. Like doing some sort of adult-scan, she locks onto Minseok and asks him to help her. 

Minseok has always liked kids, but they make him anxious. There are a million and one possibilities to mess up. His wife used to say that when they had their own children, it would be different. He’d fall into it because he was a natural dad. Meant to be. 

As soon as he squats and helps the little girl clasp the rest of her vest, she thanks him then turns to leave, her pigtails fwapping against his face. 

“I need help, too,” comes a whine from behind him.

Minseok looks over his shoulder. Jongin is standing a foot away, trying to appear like a damsel in distress with his twisted clasps. 

Minseok _also_ didn’t think that Chanyeol would bring four of his friends along to the laser tag place.

“You are _eighteen_ years old. I’m sure you can find a way to figure it out,” Minseok says, not unkindly. Jongin has been making what he probably thinks are bedroom eyes at Minseok ever since they got here. It’s sort of funny, and cute, but he doesn’t feel bad as Kyungsoo silently walks behind Jongin and jabs him in the spleen. As Jongin grumbles and rubs his back, Kyungsoo straightens the clasps on his vest.

“You look good in that vest.” Sehun leans against a wall next to the laser guns, appraising Minseok. “Like a Men in Black guy, or something.”

Minseok imagines that’s his version of high praise. In his own defense, he thought that Chanyeol would want to go get something to eat, or maybe they’d go to the museum of music. He’s wearing his usual crisp white button-down, tucked into darkwash jeans, and the shiny Italian leather shoes he got for Christmas two years ago. 

“Stop flirting with Minseok,” Chanyeol says to Sehun, like he has any right. “That’s my job.”

Standing beside him, Baekhyun gives Minseok an apologetic look. “Sorry. I wish that you could count this as some sort of charity work to take off your taxes.”

Minseok laughs as Chanyeol grabs two guns off the wall, handing one of them to him. “It’s not that terrible. The only thing I feel bad about right now is how hard I’m going to kick your asses in the arena.”

Minseok ends up coming in last place. Even after the ten year-olds. The little hellion in pigtails chased after him the entire last quarter, screeching and laughing and popping out of nowhere to land hits on his vest. That’s what he gets for helping her out. 

After a couple games of Minseok being surprisingly bad at laser tag, and Chanyeol and Jongin coming _this close_ to bludgeoning each other with their guns, the six of them cram into a booth in the arcade and Minseok orders them all a round of chili cheese fries. 

Minseok somehow ended up squished between Sehun and Jongin, both of them crowding against him. As their attention is on Minseok, Chanyeol grabs the opportunity to wolf down as many of the fries as he can. 

“So are you some hotshot accountant, too?” Jongin asks. 

“I’m an accountant, yes.”

“That’s sexy,” Sehun says.

“Do you know what an accountant is?”

“I know _you’re_ an accountant, and _you’re_ sexy.” Sehun gives him a wolfish grin. 

“Oh come on.” Minseok rolls his eyes, beginning to get a taste of Junmyeon’s perspective. “You guys are ridiculous. I could be your dad.”

The boys all look between each other, sans Chanyeol who is focused on shoveling chili into his mouth with a fork, then Kyungsoo quietly says, “Uh, no you couldn’t.”

“For being an accountant, you sure are shit with numbers,” Baekhyun says, managing to grab a fry without getting his finger bit by Chanyeol. 

“I could if I had been,” Minseok starts doing the actual math in his head, subtracting nine months, “ten and promiscuous. It’s possible.”

“Possible, but highly improblemable,” Jongin slickly says, wrapping an arm behind Minseok.

“Improbable,” Kyungsoo and Minseok correct him at the same time. 

Eventually, Minseok ends up ordering three more rounds of fries, the boys seemingly insatiable. When the last fry is snatched from the plate, Chanyeol’s friends branch out to play in the arcade. Chanyeol himself ends up staying in the booth, claiming he’s in a chili cheese fry coma, so Minseok stays behind, too. 

“Thanks for doing this,” Chanyeol says, glancing over where Baekhyun is squawking at Jongin to stop cheating as they play air hockey. “I was with the guys when you called and I’m shit at lying to them. They insisted on coming along.”

“I don’t mind. They’re a nice group of guys,” Minseok replies, just as he hears Baekhyun screech, “JONGIN YOU FUCKING FUCKFACE I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL END YOU IF YOU DO THAT AGAIN.” 

Chanyeol keeps a straight face, nodding. “They are, aren’t they?”

The two of them sit in silence for a little bit, listening to the pinging of all the arcade games and whatever top forty song is playing on the speakers overhead. Minseok feels like it’s a comfortable break in the conversation before he remembers just who he’s sitting with.

“You doing okay?” Minseok asks. Chanyeol startles, yanked out of his thoughts. 

“Yeah. I’m great. I mean, you know.” Chanyeol lifts his snapback to run his fingers through his hair. “The whole thing with Junmyeon is weird, but that’s okay. It’s really important to him, so it doesn’t matter how I—well it matters how I feel, but it’s okay because I know he’s trying his best.”

Minseok shakes his head in wonder. “You really are something, you know that?”

“In a good or bad way?”

“Good. Really good.”

Chanyeol lets out a puff of a laugh, unable to sit still at the compliment. “It doesn’t feel like that, with the way Junmyeon treats me.”

“You know that’s not fair,” Minseok softly says, “Besides, if you were different in any way, you wouldn’t have even seen Junmyeon a second time.”

Chanyeol ducks his head. “Yeah. But it still doesn’t feel like enough. I get that there’s a lot I don’t understand. I haven’t…I haven’t been hurt the way Junmyeon has. Or experienced even a fraction of what he’s been through. I just thought that being someone’s _Akaito_ meant that I could—not erase, but help smooth over all that shit.”

“You have. At this point that Junmyeon’s problems have everything to do with himself, and nothing to do with you.”

“Sort of. If only I wasn’t in high school.” Chanyeol looks at his pinky, twisting his hand to watch the red thread shimmer. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m fucking happy that I’m tied right now, but I don’t know why the thread couldn’t have waited just another year. Growing up, people always say that it comes at the precise moment it’s meant to, so it seems weird to question, but things would have been a little more simple.”

Minseok understands, to a point. He tells Chanyeol about when he met his _Akaito_ , how he was living on his friend’s futon and failing through half of his final semester at State. He didn’t have a job, and was constantly going back and forth from school to his mom’s house outside the city to take care of her during her chemo. Everything was wrong, and then his string showed up one night just after he collapsed against the futon. Fifteen minutes later, his future wife banged on the door. 

He had nothing to give her. But all she seemed to want was a little of his time. She’d meet him at the bus stop and ride with him out of the city, just so they could talk on the trip over. While he was with his mom, she’d do homework or read in the local 24/7 diner, then the two of them would meet in the dismal morning hours and make their way back to school. 

“It sounds like she really wanted you,” Chanyeol wistfully says. 

“She did. For reasons past the thread I never could understand. And trust me, Junmyeon wants you just the same. It doesn’t translate that well sometimes.”

“Then I need to learn how to speak better ‘Junmyeon.’” Chanyeol pauses on a thought, squishing his nose. “Because I’m in pretty deep, liking him. And it like, it hurts? To not see him?” Chanyeol looks confused as he says it, his eyebrows bunched together. 

_Oh God, Junmyeon_ , Minseok thinks, _don’t fuck this up_. 

“Yeah?” he asks.

Chanyeol nods. “Yeah. We weren’t even technically dating but I feel really out of myself without him. I can’t even do something like laser tag without thinking about him, or feeling bad for myself like some loser. Is that possible? Like, an actual thing?”  
Minseok is pretty sure he’s going to strangle Junmyeon the next time he sees him. Admittedly, he’d been the one who’d initially pushed Junmyeon into getting to know Chanyeol. Junmyeon hadn’t wanted any of this, one of the exact reasons being that he didn’t want to hurt the kid. But it was all for the man’s good. Now if he could just take that last step.

“It is. An actual thing.”

 

☓

 

The next morning at work, Junmyeon is left blinking in bafflement at the empty opening of his cubicle after Minseok arrived and poked his head in. Minseok sipped his coffee while his other hand was noticeably empty, then hissed, “ _Suffer_ ,” before leaving for his own cubicle.

 

☓

 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Chanyeol asks, sounding affronted. “Maybe then I would have known not to literally throw myself at you.”

“I don’t think it would have made you act any different.”

“Yes it would have.” Stupid, stubborn kid.

Junmyeon sighs, pulling his blanket tighter around his shoulders. His bed frame creaks as he moves. It’s getting impossibly late, the night dipping into early morning hours. Chanyeol texted him at one, asking if he was up, and Junmyeon called in reply. B.C.—Before Chanyeol—Junmyeon would have already been asleep by ten on a Friday night. That was when he still knew how sanity felt.

“Because I didn’t think it was going to be a problem. I thought you’d give up within a month and it wouldn’t be an issue.”

“Two weeks,” Chanyeol says in a high voice. “That Jongdae guy broke up with you _two weeks_ before you became tied. Basically leading up to the moment you met me, you were _living with another dude_. At your apartment. The apartment I’ve been in.”

It sounds a lot worse when Chanyeol says it. It’s the beginning of April. There’s been some progress since the “meeting” about graduation, but every now and then Chanyeol seems shocked to learn that Junmyeon had a life before he was in it. 

“So?”

“I just—” Chanyeol makes a frustrated sound in his throat. Then he heaves a sigh. “You’ve been with a lot of guys.”

“Not—”

“ _A lot_. And I’ve only had the pleasure of having two guys stick their hands down my pants.”

_Right_ , Junmyeon thinks, a slight burning in his gut as he thinks about one of them. Jongin. That kid who Chanyeol is still friends with; the one who frotted around with his _Akaito_.

Chanyeol is quiet for a moment. That always makes Junmyeon uneasy. “Why did you date so many guys when you weren’t tied to them? You could have guessed how it would turn out.”

Chanyeol now knows about all of Junmyeon’s exes. The bartender he was with after college who became tied a year into their relationship. The struggling architect who ended up tied to someone else after only four months. The professor that lasted almost as long as his first boyfriend, who ended up cheating on him. Last, there was Jongdae, the “fuck if I care” guy who was supposed to be a series of flings to forget every last ex but ended up staying.

“What? Was I supposed to wait for a red thread to give me validation? Are people not supposed to date, or love each other, if there isn’t a string between them?”

“Well it saves you from a lot of heartbreak.”

“It saves you from a lot of _living_ , kid.” 

“Then what are you doing now? Pushing me away, doing everything you can to fight. Is this living?”

Junmyeon did not expect Chanyeol to flip it like that. He gulps. “No. Which is why I’m only going to do this until you graduate. After that, who knows what’ll happen.”

Silence. Then, “I miss you.”

Junmyeon’s heart thuds harder. He twists so his face is muffled against the pillow on his bed. It’s barely audible when he says, “I miss you, too.”

Junmyeon doesn’t go to sleep that night. He eventually hears Chanyeol drift off, snoring like the fairy princess he is, then ends the call. Still wrapped in the blanket, he trudges out of bed then flops to the floor in front of his closet. He doesn’t need to turn the lights on to know where the boxes are, and blindly reaches out to grab onto one of them. 

Jongdae still hasn’t come to pick up his stuff. It’s nothing big, mostly a selection of DVDs, t-shirts worn thin, and the plethora of sex toys that make Junmyeon’s skin hot just to catch a glimpse of. His ex probably bought a whole new supply of them with his _Akaito_ , Junmyeon figures. 

He waits for that pang of jealousy to come; that ache somewhere between his heart and spine that always hit when thinking of Jongdae. But it doesn’t. Junmyeon pulls all of the boxes out of his closet and into his living room, putting them by the door. He makes coffee, flips through the three ring binder, then puts his mug in the dishwasher when he’s finished. 

The only twinge that hits him is when he thinks of Chanyeol. 

Around eight in the morning, Junmyeon calls Jongdae. 

“Junmyeon?”

“Hey. Look, I still have all that stuff that you left here. I’m doing a little pre-spring cleaning. If you give me your address, I’ll take it to you and drop it off.”

Jongdae’s new place isn’t that far away, surprisingly enough. It’s a penthouse, with an elevator that opens right into the living room. Junmyeon is dazed as he walks in, barely remembering to thank the bellhops who helped him carry the boxes up before they leave. 

And then Jongdae peers around the corner, so much smaller than Junmyeon remembers. He always did have a tiny frame, easy for him to bend and push, but his personality made him seem five times bigger. He’s wearing a soft-looking white sweater that hangs loose off his shoulders, his hair trim and cut. Junmyeon waits for that pang again, to no avail. 

“Hey stranger,” Jongdae says, his mouth curving into that feline smile. 

The two of them move to what Jongdae grandly calls the “brunch nook,” rolling his eyes at the phrase. Losing the zap of his last drink, Junmyeon gratefully accepts as Jongdae offers to make coffee. His ex is only gone for two minutes before he hears him start to swear and bang against something metallic in the kitchen. When Jongdae reemerges, he has two cups of instant coffee. 

“Sorry, still haven’t figured out how to work the espresso machine yet,” he sheepishly says.

“How long have you lived here?” Junmyeon carefully asks. The last time they saw each other, Jongdae was crying, tugging at Junmyeon’s arm for some kind of forgiveness, and all Junmyeon could do was stare blankly ahead. He didn’t say goodbye as Jongdae walked out of his apartment.

“One month now. After I…left, I stayed at my crappy little studio apartment for a while. Just as he and I got to know each other. But things moved pretty fast after that, when I figured out he was actually a really great guy, as boring as that is.” Jongdae holds up his hand, wiggling his pinky. “ _Akaito_ , and what not.”

“So either he won the lottery, or you’re tied to Bruce Wayne,” Junmyeon says, looking at his swank surroundings. He’s actually _happy_ that Jongdae is in such a nice place; Jongdae with his rough edges and dripping sarcasm, the one who was even more wrecked of a person than him. 

“Who?”

“Batman.”

“God.” Jongdae rolls his eyes. “Dress you up nice and put a tie on, and you’re still a loser. But my _Akaito_ is a Lawyer.”

“That’s cool.”

Jongdae shakes his head. “Contract law. AKA the most boring kind of law. But I’m pretty sure he gets paid in bricks of diamonds, based off this place and what he’s given me, so it’s forgivable.”

They talk for a while, easily falling back in step with each other. He learns that Jongdae is still working at the library, tells Jongdae about the new job offer he’s received, and eventually, Jongdae asks if Junmyeon has been seeing anyone. 

“Yeah.” Is the only thing Junmyeon says, and Jongdae lets him leave it at that. Soon, it’s almost noon, and Jongdae says that his boyfriend will be home in a little bit. He offers to introduce them, but looks relieved when Junmyeon declines. 

The two of them walk back to the elevator together, Jongdae surprising Junmyeon with a tight hug.

“You’re amazing, do you know that?” Jongdae asks. Junmyeon is glad they’re hugging and he doesn’t have to look him in the face. “I just want you to know, that if it hadn’t been for you, I still would have been in a really dark place when my string showed up. I feel like I owe so much of my new life to you.”

Junmyeon hugs him back, knowing what he said stems from his guilt, then steps away. “You’ve _definitely_ changed. That was much mushier than the old Jongdae would have said.”

Another eye roll. “That’s what you say when I try and be sentimental? Jackass.” Jongdae’s eyes soften. “Hey, this is kind of a long-shot, but any chance you’d like to have coffee sometime? Real coffee? I know that it wouldn’t work right now, but I’d really like it if we could be friends. Eventually.”

As much as Junmyeon likes the thought of that, there’s still so much he has to deal with. He’s not ready to be buddy-buddy with the last man who ground his heart into a pulp. But he smiles, shrugs. “After the things that we did to each other with the stuff in those boxes, I don’t know how possible that is.”

Jongdae tilts his head in a nod. “I get it.”

“But eventually,” Junmyeon says, hearing the ping of the elevator door opening, “I’d like that, too.”

 

☓

 

There’s a weight that seems to be absent after that, something that Junmyeon hadn’t noticed he was carrying until it was gone. It didn’t fix anything, but it was a step in the right direction. He should have taken Jongdae his things a long time ago. It almost seemed more laughable than the mug that he’d kept on his coffee table for months. 

Almost. 

Somehow the King of Timing, Chanyeol calls him later that day, when he’s still riding the high of his own little victory. Junmyeon is waiting in yet another café to meet with the representative from the medical supply company, wanting to talk through a couple questions he had.

“I know you don’t want us to see each other right now,” Chanyeol says. Junmyeon can practically hear the pout in his voice. “But I have a spring recital for Harper’s coming up in two weeks. Everyone who takes lessons has to perform a piece, and all of the instructors play a song or two together on stage. I know it might seem stupid, but it’s important to me. Plus, my parents can’t make it, and—”

“What day?” After Chanyeol tells him the date, Junmyeon says with a breath of brevity, “I’ll be there.”

 

☓

 

“Think you can keep a secret?” Chanyeol pseudo-whispers to Danah. He’s 99.9% positive that it’s not the best thing to ask an eight year-old in such a small, private room, but he’s so giddy at this point that he doesn’t care.

Danah vigorously nods, her pudgy hands gripping tighter around the neck of her guitar.

“My boyfriend’s coming to the recital.”

Danah’s excited gasp makes up for the less-than-genuine, “Cool, that’s great,” his friends said when he told them. At least Baekhyun had reached over and given his hand a squeeze. 

“Will I get to meet him? Is he beautiful?” Danah wheezes. 

“I don’t know if you’ll get to meet him, but I’ll point him out to you in the crowd. And duh, don’t you think a guy like me should have a beautiful boyfriend? He has dark eyes and a princely smile and pretty wrists that peek out from his shirt when he rolls up the sleeves.”

“He sounds perfect.”

Chanyeol thinks he should have told Danah about Junmyeon long ago. “I know, right?”

“I invited someone, too,” Danah says. 

“Who? Your big sister?”

“ _Duh_ ,” Danah says in a perfect mimicry of Chanyeol, “But I’m not talking about her. I invited Nicole.”

“Is Nicole one of your friends?”

Danah shrugs. “I think she will be. She’s the girl who kept stealing my money and liked calling me names on the playground.”

“The asshole hellspawn?” Chanyeol blurts before he can stop himself. Danah laughs as he trips over words, asking her not to tell anyone he said that.

“Last week, she was crying in front of the school a while after the bell went off. I guess that her mom was supposed to pick her up and she forgot, or something, and she didn’t have money to take the bus home. She said she lived a long way from the school.” Danah starts strumming through a couple chords as she talks, a habit that she’s picked up over the past couple months. “So I sat with her a little bit. Nicole doesn’t even have a cell phone to use in case of emergencies.”

“That was nice of you.”

“Yeah. But her mom didn’t come, and I think she was scared, so I invited her to come to my house because I only live a couple blocks away from the school. I knew Dad would be able to help her get home.”

“Did he?”

Danah nods. “Yeah. We had apples and peanut butter then all of us rode the bus to Nicole’s house. I still don’t think she likes me very much, but she hasn’t taken my lunch money or called me a pig since. And when I invited her to my recital, to show her what a guitar ditty I am, she said she’d think about it.”

“ _Deity_.” 

“What?”  
“Never mind.” Chanyeol starts strumming along with Danah. “You know, I don’t think I could have given my lucky guitar pick to a more deserving person.”

 

☓

 

Chanyeol is wearing a suit. His shoes are shiny, jacket well-fitted, hair slicked back, and he’d feel exactly like James Bond if his mom would stop blubbering about how her baby is all grown up as she straightens his tie for the hundredth time.

“ _Mom_ ,” Chanyeol whines, pulling his head away as she reaches to smooth down his sideburns _again_. He feels strong hands grab either sides of his head from behind him—his dad’s—and his head is forced within her reach again. 

“She pushed your watermelon head out of her body eighteen years ago. I think you can give her this one thing,” his dad teases. 

Mrs. Park slaps her husband’s hands away. “You’re just messing up his hair _more_.” She _tsks_. “I really wish that we could make it to the recital. It was so beautiful last year.”

“It’s no big deal,” Chanyeol replies. It is, but he doesn’t want to make his parents feel any worse than they already do. His dad has to pick up some of his boss’ clients at the airport, then take them on a tour of the factory he works at before driving them to their hotel. His Mom is locked in for another night at the restaurant. “I know you guys would if you could.”

Mrs. Park gives a shuddery breath, her eyes looking watery before she exclaims, “Pictures! We have to take pictures!”

“Mom, you _do_ know that eventually you’ll have to let me out of your clutches so that I can actually _get_ to the recital, right?”

His mom narrows her eyes at him. “You _did_ have a watermelon head, ruined things that I will never get back. Correct me if that’s not worth a couple pictures.”

As she whisks off to find the camera, Chanyeol glares at his dad, who is laughing a little too hard at that.

 

☓

 

Chanyeol said to get dressed up, so when Junmyeon and Minseok park in Quincy High’s parking lot, both of them emerge from the car in suits. After a long winter, the air finally feels like spring; would _smell_ like spring if Chanyeol’s district wasn’t filled with factories. 

“Ready?” Minseok asks him. Junmyeon doesn’t know why he’s so scared to see Chanyeol again. It’s only been two months. He feels like he’s on the edge of something—can’t shake that feeling. 

“Sure.” 

The two of them follow the trail of people making their way into the auditorium. Chanyeol was right, the crowd inside is modest, but there’s an excitement in the air as if it were a full-house. Everyone is dressed up to their own version of the nines: parents, spouses, friends, and siblings who came to support Harper’s students. 

The auditorium is huge, matching Quincy High’s large student body. It smells like dusty old carpeting and sweaty teenagers.

“Hey—hey Minseok! Over here!” Junmyeon hears someone call it from the first couple rows, and looks up to see a boy standing on one of the seats, waving his arm back and forth. It’s Jongin. He recognizes him from Chanyeol’s never-ending slew of selfies with his friends. 

“His friends are here?” Junmyeon asks in a tight voice. 

“Unclench,” Minseok replies, tugging on his arm to lead him through the other people finding their seats. The two of them end up sitting in the row behind Chanyeol’s friends. All four of them—even Baekhyun who he’s met before—curiously turn around to give him the once-over.

“So you’re the guy who Chanyeol’s been flipping a dick about,” Jongin says, looking Junmyeon up and down. Junmyeon hates how attractive the kid is, only because he’s that obvious kind of hot that Chanyeol appreciated at one time. “Surprised you even showed up.”

The kid with the huge eyes—Kyungsoo, if he remembers correctly—grabs the back of Jongin’s sweater and gives it a yank.

“Trust me, I’m just as surprised as you are,” Junmyeon manages to cooly reply, straightening his cufflinks in a way he knows looks unconcerned.

“Chanyeol’s really happy that you’re here,” Baekhyun quickly interjects. He gives Sehun a withering look, who’s still giggling at “flipping a dick.” “There’s a reception after the show, out in the lobby. You guys should stick around for a little bit.”

Junmyeon doesn’t know about that. His plan is to come see the recital, go congratulate Chanyeol backstage, then make his exit.

Before he can reply, the lights dim. Meandering people scramble to find their seats as conversations die down, then completely out. A spotlight is cast to the wing, catching and following an old couple as they hobble to the center of the stage.

_Mrs. Lim is a goddess_ , Junmyeon hears Chanyeol say in his head as they speak into a microphone, introducing themselves as the Lims: owners of Harper’s. It’s hard to believe that the woman wearing glasses with lenses half an inch thick can see well enough to cook the amazing things she does. 

The couple welcomes everyone to the recital; explain the tradition that has lasted the past twenty-five years. They’re warm and soft spoken. Someone brings out a guitar for Mr. Lim, and he plays as Mrs. Lim shakily sings an old folk song. 

Through everyone’s applause when they finish, Mrs. Lim leans toward the center microphone and says, “We will be starting this evening with our students aged six to fourteen. Here to introduce them is our youngest, and by far, handsomest—” The crowd chuckles: Chanyeol seemingly infamous among the Harper’s crowd. “—instructor, Park Chanyeol.”

There’s applause again. The boys in the row in front of them whoop and whistle. 

And then Junmyeon watches Chanyeol walk on stage. 

Everything else around him dissolves, colors and lights bleeding into each other so that all he can see in clarity is his _Akaito._ He looks _different_ , and Junmyeon’s brain is so twisted at the sight of him that he can’t understand why. Is it the suit? Or because he’s been missing him? All Junmyeon knows is that Chanyeol has impossibly long legs and wide shoulders and when he smiles he’s so, so handsome in a way that doesn’t make sense. 

“Good evening, everybody.” Chanyeol’s voice has always been sexy, but the way it rolls through the speakers makes Junmyeon’s spine tingle. “Like Mrs. Lim said, I’m Park Chanyeol, and I have seven students who I’ve been working with this year. I’m really, really proud of this group—”

Junmyeon tunes him out as he’s talking. He can only hear his heart nudging beneath his ribcage; the sound his spit makes down his throat when he gulps. Chanyeol probably can’t see him because too many lights are shining directly in his face, but every time the kid’s eyes so much as move in his direction, Junmyeon jumps in his seat. 

“So let me introduce Harper’s six year-old superstar, Jackson Isaacs!” Chanyeol announces, clapping along with everyone else as a tiny boy with an equally tiny guitar walks to a microphone and chair that has been set up center-stage. The boy looks a nervous wreck as he takes a seat. He squints at the lights then looks at Chanyeol, broadcasting SOS. 

Junmyeon watches as Chanyeol quietly gives encouragement and a thumbs up. Jackson isn’t having it. His hands remain frozen on the frets. Chanyeol walks to Jackson, taking a seat in the empty chair beside him. His voice catches on the microphone meant for the guitar. 

“Just like we practiced, right?” Chanyeol says in a tone Junmyeon hasn’t heard him use before.It’s gentle and patient. “Want me to count you in?” 

The kid shakes his head no. Some _aw_ ’s and whispers break through the crowd. 

“Will you play if I do?” Chanyeol asks. Jackson puts it under great consideration then nods, his black curly hair bouncing.

Chanyeol jogs off stage then reemerges with his own guitar. He takes a seat again. He leans toward the guitar microphone. “Alright, so this is the incomparable Jackson Isaacs, playing Kookaburra, accompanied by DJ Park.”

Chanyeol turns so he’s facing Jackson. The boy looks at him like a lifeline. Chanyeol counts them in, strongly strumming the first couple notes then fading out as Jackson starts to play, himself. 

The song is short, and when it’s over, the entire audience cheers like they’re watching a Chelsea game. Jackson’s eyes are wide with amazement, and soon enough, he’s smiling just like Chanyeol. Everyone can hear it when Chanyeol says, “That was _perfect_. Want to play your next one by yourself?”

Jackson breaks his silence with a shy, “Yes.”

_Oh no_. Junmyeon’s stomach turns as Chanyeol gives Jackson a high five, then introduces his next song. Is he actually attracted to the fact that Chanyeol is good with kids? That would be a first.

One by one, Chanyeol continues introducing his students, the older ones much more comfortable on stage than poor Jackson. Junmyeon is entranced by the way the kids look at him—glance where he stands by the sidelines for support, confirmation, or encouragement. After each one of them finish, Chanyeol claps louder than everyone else, beaming at them with bursting pride.

When the last of his students finish, all seven of them come to the stage. Chanyeol looks like Godzilla as they stand beside him, all taking hands for their last bow. As they walk off stage to the applause and flashing cameras of their parents, the kids are so hopped up on the attention that they pull and tug at his jacket, try and trip him, and a girl in glasses grabs his hand with both of hers, swinging his arm with force. Chanyeol looks like he couldn’t be happier. 

Junmyeon tries his hardest, but he can barely pay attention through the rest of the recital. Between sets of adults playing children’s songs or acoustic Led Zeppelin, depending on their skill level, the instructors take turns playing their own pieces. Chanyeol doesn’t play his until the recital is almost over. The sight of him on stage again makes Junmyeon’s palms sweat. 

Chanyeol takes a seat, placing his guitar in his lap. His presence fills the stage as he squints into the lights. 

“Hey everyone, if you don’t remember, I’m Park Chanyeol. We have two more students who are going to play, then a Pete Seeger singalong for everyone to wrap it up. But before that, I’m going to be playing a song for you guys by Bright Eyes.” Chanyeol’s eyes shift through the black blob of the crowd, searching. “It’s called _First Day of My Life._ This is for Junmyeon. I hope you like it.”

Junmyeon’s skin heats up in a mixture of embarrassment and mortified pleasure. He’s thankful to be hidden in the darkness. Happy that no one can see him when he feels so raw.

Junmyeon doesn’t breathe until Chanyeol breaks into the first notes of the song. It’s soft, pretty; a quiet insight of Chanyeol’s sweetness.

Then Chanyeol starts to sing.

For the first time tonight, the four boys in front of Junmyeon and Minseok are still. The whole auditorium is still. A different kind of shiver ricochets through Junmyeon. Chanyeol’s singing isn’t perfect, but it’s lulling. Sincere. Deep. Junmyeon listens, every lyric notching against his heart in a way that he can’t tell if it’s painful or something entirely different. 

Oh God. He’s in trouble. He’s in such deep shit. Junmyeon had no clue, either, during those months when they were first getting to know each other that something had rooted in him. He’d let it grow, fostered it, and now somehow has the audacity to be surprised when it feels like Chanyeol’s song has an actual grip around his heart. 

Chanyeol strums the last chord, the note traveling then fading through the air. Junmyeon doesn’t remember much after that. Applause. More songs. Everyone standing and singing together as the lights came on. 

The next thing he knows, he’s backstage, walking toward Chanyeol. Some kind of adrenaline surges through him as he gets closer, Chanyeol’s suit and hair and smile all coming in clearer. Chanyeol doesn’t see him at first, talking with an older gentleman wearing a Hawaiian shirt. 

Junmyeon places his hand firmly on Chanyeol’s shoulder. Chanyeol turns around, his grin breaking wider. There’s a pretty blush on his cheeks. “Hey.”

“Could I, uh,” Junmyeon says, “Talk to you? Somewhere private.”

“Sure.” Chanyeol excuses himself then opens the door to the nearest dressing room. He turns on the lights and walks in. “Is this okay? Will you be able to control yourself from mauling me after my sex-God perform—”

While he was talking, Junmyeon shut the door behind them. Locked it. He strides up to Chanyeol, who’s still gabbing about something stupid, grabs the lapels of his suit, and roughly pulls him down for a kiss. Chanyeol lets out a muffled exclamation, their noses bashing and mouths meeting at awkward angles. He’s stunned, but then Junmyeon tilts his head just right and the slide of their lips brings him back to life.

A rush; the world starts spinning with such force that one step out of their axis could send either of them flying. 

As soon as Chanyeol gains the momentum to kiss back, Junmyeon wraps his arms around his neck. Junmyeon’s bones buzz with the way Chanyeol’s hands feel clutched against his back, the way he uses them to pull their bodies flush together. Big hands strong arms warm chest. 

Junmyeon bites Chanyeol’s plush lower lip, licks across it. With the opportunity, Chanyeol dives to deepen the kiss. He’s eager, sloppy. Obviously inexperienced as their teeth clack. Junmyeon tangles his fingers in the hair at the back of Chanyeol’s head, using it as leverage to try and control him into a pace; to listen to Chanyeol’s grunts as he gives certain tugs. 

They part to exchange a shaky inhale. Junmyeon trails hungry open-mouthed kisses from the corner of Chanyeol’s lips, down the ridge of his jaw, until he finds a spot near Chanyeol’s pulse point that makes him twitch when he sucks at the skin. Junmyeon wraps a hand around the side of Chanyeol’s neck, fingertips digging possessively against muscle. 

Chanyeol blinks at the ceiling, stuttering breaths, sure that this is one of his dreams and he’ll wake up in his bed any minute now. But Junmyeon’s mouth is hot and wet against him and the way he can feel their heartbeats thudding against each other gives every indication that this is real. Junmyeon sucks again, and Chanyeol’s knees wobble as he lets out an embarrassing “ _guh_.” 

Junmyeon exhales a laugh at the sound. The way his breath fans across wet skin makes Chanyeol’s entire body break into goosebumps. His tie is too tight. He’s too hot. But loosening it would mean breaking contact and he never ever wants to do that. He impatiently nudges Junmyeon with his chin to ask to be kissed again. Junmyeon complies. He uses his hold on Chanyeol to maneuver him back a step, crushing him against the wall. The air from Chanyeol’s lungs whooshes out, Junmyeon sucking it all from his mouth. 

Even with Junmyeon pressed fully against him, the man’s tongue against his, Chanyeol has a need to be _closer_. It doesn’t make sense. He tries to find better purchase against his _Akaito_ , greedy hands moving from his back, to his shoulders, to his hips, until sliding over Junmyeon’s ass like he’s dreamed about doing ever since following him out of Lachowski, Miller & Co. that first day. Junmyeon allows it. Through the heavy haze of Chanyeol’s mind, he hears successful beeps from sizing up in Super Mario.

Even more amazing than Junmyeon letting him grip his ass is the new sound he makes when Chanyeol squeezes. It’s low and needy and sends a new wave of sticky heat through his abdomen. Chanyeol does it again, and is rewarded with Junmyeon unconsciously rocking his hips against his. 

Chanyeol thinks it’s the most amazing thing that’s ever happened to him his entire life. 

They start to press tighter. Rock harder. All Chanyeol can do is hold on to Junmyeon, trapped between him and the wall, as Junmyeon controls the pace. 

Chanyeol is lost in heat and craving and deliriousness, the places Junmyeon is clutching the dip of his neck and pulling his hair tottering just short of painful. Chanyeol’s heart is somewhere in his throat—stomach somewhere by his knees—because eventually with every slide of their hips he can feel that Junmyeon, at least in this moment, wants him just as much as he does.

And Chanyeol knows everything is building too fast for just making out, that it should be embarrassing how soon the coiling inside of him is threatening to spring loose, but it’s only a blip in his mind. He’s lost. So lost that when he reaches the precipice, he can barely manage to say, “I—can’t—Junmyeon—” against his lips before he dives headfirst. 

Junmyeon feels Chanyeol stiffly curl against him, surprise parting through the clouds of his mind as Chanyeol rocks his hips through it and moans. It’s sexy and intoxicating, and he wants to hear it again and again and again. Junmyeon has to hold Chanyeol’s weight against the wall, his body beginning to go limp. 

Their noses brush, Chanyeol breathing deep, as he starts mumbling, “Sorry, sorry. Fuck, I’m sorry.”

Now with a little more distance, Junmyeon can see how bright pink his face is. He’s not meeting Junmyeon’s eyes. It’s laughable, how easy and quick Chanyeol came, but he manages to keep a straight face as he kisses Chanyeol’s bottom lip. 

“It’s okay,” Junmyeon says, his voice husky. He kisses Chanyeol’s top lip. “It happens.”

Chanyeol dares to raise his eyes. “Not to you.”

Junmyeon cards his fingers through Chanyeol’s hair, gravity slowly beginning to take hold again. “There’s a couple reasons why not.”

Chanyeol gulps, shifting from of the uncomfortable stickiness in his boxers. A thought strikes him, and he feels a fresh blush make its way beneath his skin. 

“Do you, uh,” Chanyeol shyly says, feeling all kinds of bare in front of Junmyeon. “Want me to take care of you?”

Junmyeon blinks, his mouth opening but no words coming out. As he tries fight down the images that hit him, Chanyeol moves one of his hands from his waist, timidly palming him through the fabric of his dress pants. Junmyeon sharply inhales, _want want want_ beginning to pick up its pace in his veins again, but he ends up kissing Chanyeol one last time before forcing himself to take a step away. 

It feels like he’s missing a limb as soon as the space settles between them. 

“No,” Junmyeon says, seeing a shocked look play across Chanyeol’s face before he quickly adds, “That’s not a good idea. If I’d known how…worked up, you were getting, I wouldn’t have…”

Maybe he should be thankful that Chanyeol broke through the moment. Now that there’s some distance between them and he can actually think straight, the situation is starting to dawn on him. He hadn’t meant to get so carried away; every moment before this one building at such a seemingly uncontrollable crescendo. 

But it _had_ been controllable. Junmyeon had basically orchestrated the whole thing. Panic sparks in his stomach. This is the opposite of what he’d planned. 

Junmyeon glances around the room, taking it in for the first time. Luckily, by a set of mirrors against the wall is a box of tissues. Not perfect, but it will have to do. He grabs the box and tosses it to Chanyeol, not daring to get any closer. 

“You should probably clean yourself up,” he says. There’s a packet of oil-free makeup removing wipes by the door, so he tosses those over as well. He can feel Chanyeol studying him.

“Don’t freak out on me, now,” Chanyeol cautiously says.

“I’m not.” Junmyeon’s voice is a squeak. Because he _is_. Everything up to this point, every reason—solid reasons—why he absolutely should not give in to Chanyeol, had been shattered just because of a song? Just because Chanyeol looked amazing in a suit? Junmyeon feels pathetic pathetic _pathetic_. “Here, I’ll hold your jacket.”

Chanyeol still looks suspicious, but he takes off his jacket and hands it over. Junmyeon looks down at its stitching as Chanyeol untucks his shirt, opens up the front of his pants, then starts cleaning himself and his boxers to the best of his ability. He hopes the smell of the cleanser will cover everything else. 

“Junmyeon,” Chanyeol quietly says when he’s finished, unsure how to continue. Everything had been fucking wonderful but now the air around them feels dreadfully uneven. If only he’d been able to keep himself together, then maybe it wouldn’t have ended like this. 

Junmyeon hands him his jacket back. Chanyeol puts it on as Junmyeon finally steps closer and straightens his tie. “I know.” 

This is it. This is what Chanyeol wanted, but he can’t figure out why he feels so scared. 

Junmyeon checks Chanyeol over, the two of them silently straightening each other’s hair. Chanyeol’s neck is blotchy pink from where Junmyeon’s fingers had been holding him, and there’s a slightly debauched air about both of them that nothing can be done about. 

“Well.” Junmyeon gives out a long breath, trying his best to smile. As uneasy as he is, he doesn’t want Chanyeol to freak out. “Let’s go eat some cheap donuts and grainy juice, shall we?”

Junmyeon unlocks the door, the moment when he locked it feeling like ages ago, and the two of them walk back into the hall. He feels Chanyeol grab his hand to stop him, the red thread between them shortening within millimeters. Junmyeon turns, about to ask what the matter is when Chanyeol cups Junmyeon’s cheeks with his hands, then leans down for a soft kiss. Junmyeon’s eyes flutter shut.

“Chanyeol?”  
Ice. Junmyeon’s spine freezes. The voice came from down the hall. Chanyeol doesn’t take his hands away from Junmyeon’s face as both of their heads jerk to look. 

Mr. and Mrs. Park. Yura. All standing at the end of the hall. Chanyeol’s mom is holding a bouquet of lillies, her eyes ricocheting between him and Junmyeon. Who he’d just been kissing. Who made him come in his pants ten minutes ago.

“Mom?” Beneath Chanyeol’s hands, he can feel Junmyeon turn to stone. He lets go.

“We were looking for you,” Mr. Park says before a silence can break in. He’s smiling, trying to dispel the weight of the moment. “We uh, thought it would be fun to surprise you tonight. Pretend to have to work, then bring you flowers. And Yura came too.”

“So, surprised?” Yura crinkles her nose.

“Yeah,” Chanyeol pathetically says.

“So,” his dad pushes ahead, eyes settling on Junmyeon. “Who’s this…gentleman?”

Junmyeon wants to die a million deaths. This is the fastest turn-around of karma he’s ever witnessed. Somehow he moves, gathering himself together as he walks to the Parks. Chanyeol trails along. Stands at his side. Junmyeon extends his hand to Chanyeol’s dad. 

“I’m Kim Junmyeon, it’s nice to meet you. Sir,” he says, voice wavering a little. He hopes Mr. Park is too shocked to notice the way Chanyeol’s lips are red, or the blotches on his neck.

Past Mr. Park’s smile, he squeezes Junmyeon’s hand a little harder than necessary as they shake. Yeah. He definitely noticed.

“And who, exactly, is Kim Junmyeon?” Mr. Park asks Chanyeol. 

Chanyeol looks at Junmyeon, feeling the desperation rolling off of him in waves. He wants to do everything possible to keep Junmyeon close, but if ever, this is the point where he can’t lie to his parents anymore. So squaring his shoulders, he says what he’s been wanting to tell everyone since his string first showed up. 

“My _Akaito_.”

Mrs. Park almost drops the flowers, petals shaking from the stems. Her voice is high and watery as she says, “You’re tied?”

Chanyeol nods. “Since November.”

“Since Novem—you didn’t—why—” Mrs. Park sputters. Mr. Park places a hand on her shoulder, the smile gone from his face. 

“When in November?” Mr. Park solemnly asks. 

“Couple weeks before my birthday.”

“And have you two been—”

“No,” Chanyeol quickly says. “Nothing. We’ve just been getting to know each other.”

“Chanyeol.” Mr. Park’s voice is a low warning. His eyes flick to his son’s neck.

“I’m serious, dad. Junmyeon’s been—he’s really serious about not—he hasn’t let me do anything. Until, um, tonight. But I swear it’s the first time that he’s—that we’ve—kissed. All we did was kiss…” Chanyeol peters out. Junmyeon is sweating gallons now. Everything about this is wrong. 

“Why am I having a hard time believing it?” Mr. Park asks. 

“He’s telling the truth. Sir.” Junmyeon feels like his stomach inches up his throat with every word, but he forges ahead. “Ever since we met, there’s been boundaries. We’re tied, but I’m well aware of the law, and haven’t taken advantage of your—of Chanyeol.”

“Until tonight,” Mr. Park says.

“Until tonight,” Junmyeon pitifully echoes. “And I realized before we even entered the hall that it was a large mistake, on my part. Which I can’t apologize enough about.”

“Junmyeon—” Chanyeol starts. 

“That seems to be putting it lightly when my son is in _high school_ , and you’re—how old are you?” Mrs. Park speaks up again.

_Oh God._ “I’m thirty-one, ma’am.”

The lillies drop to the floor. Yura squats to pick them up, looking torn between wanting to watch this play out or pretending to focus on the mess of petals.

Chanyeol rushes to say, “But I’m eighteen now so it’s not like Junmyeon broke the law. I’m an adult and—”

“ _Like hell_ you’re an adult.” Mrs. Park walks closer to Chanyeol, her husband’s hand falling off her shoulder. Junmyeon sees him slightly cower in her presence. “You think an adult would act like this?”

Junmyeon startles as Mrs. Park whips her steely gaze to him, continuing, “And I know my son can be stupid and stubborn, but _you_ are the actual adult in this situation. _You_ are the one with the responsibility. Why would you let this continue from November?” 

“Because we’re _Akaito_ , Mom,” Chanyeol exasperatedly says. “And don’t blame him. He tried, he really tried to make me go away, but I wouldn’t, and I kept bothering him, so it’s all my fault.”

“He obviously didn’t try hard enough,” Mrs. Park harshly says, Chanyeol flinching. 

Junmyeon really thinks he’s going to puke. Because she’s right. Chanyeol can try to take the blame and make up as many excuses as he wants, but it all comes down to one thing: Junmyeon allowing it. Chanyeol is innocent and naive and doesn’t completely understand their relationship. Junmyeon should have taken control of the situation. The adult. The more experienced one. Instead, by letting Chanyeol play in his fantasies and never putting a stop to it, Junmyeon feels like he was actually taking advantage of the kid. Especially after what just happened in the dressing room.

Mrs Park continues, “And being _Akaito_ isn’t close enough to being a valid reason.”

Chanyeol didn’t know any better. Junmyeon did.

“But Mom—”

“You’re right,” Junmyeon says. Chanyeol whips his head to look at Junmyeon. 

“Stop.” Chanyeol clenches his fists. “Don’t do this to me, not now.”

“ _Jesus fucking Christ_ there’s free food, what is taking you guys so—” 

Jongin. And Baekhyun and Sehun and Kyungsoo and Minseok. All of them had whipped around the corner leading backstage, coming to a screeching halt when they noticed the Parks. A block of awkward silence crashes between them.

At the temporary distraction, Mr. Park steps to his wife’s side, placing his hand on her shoulder again. “Perhaps we should continue this with Chanyeol at home, dear.” He calmly looks to Junmyeon. “Do you have any kind of business card? Would you mind giving us one?”

Junmyeon’s hands shake as he reaches into the pocket of his pants, procuring his wallet then pulling out one of his cards. Mr. Park gives a grim smile then says, “Thanks. We’ll keep in touch. Come on, Chanyeol. We’re leaving.”

Chanyeol shakes his head. He doesn’t help the situation by looking like a pouting toddler as he says, “No. I need to talk to Junmyeon, first.”

“Go, Chanyeol,” Junmyeon softly says. Chanyeol opens his mouth to protest, but his mom says, “ _Park Chanyeol_ ,” and gives her son a look that has Chanyeol quickly following behind her as she turns to talk down the hall. 

Then they’re gone. Chanyeol’s friends scatter like it’s West Side Story. 

Junmyeon and Minseok are left standing in the hall. And somehow Minseok knows not to say anything. Ask any questions. He notices Junmyeon’s twitching fingers and offers to drive them home. Minseok turns on the radio during the long drive, and Junmyeon has to roll his window down and feel the air slapping across his face to remember to take even breaths. When they go their separate ways, Minseok carefully asks if Junmyeon needs anything. 

“No.”

It’s not until Junmyeon gets inside his apartment when he lets himself panic. He has enough clarity to consider which would be better, letting the waves of anxiety crash over him on the couch or in his bed, but ends up sitting on the floor behind his couch. Useless.

He’s fucked up. _Oh,_ he’s fucked up. 

It’s _real real real_ and how did he let himself be sucked into such a bubble? He actually had started to believe that as long as there were certain limits on their relationship, there was nothing wrong with being with Chanyeol. But then Mrs. Park looked at him like some kind of criminal and it popped every illusion that he had built up. That he’d _wanted._ Such a desperate ache that he hadn’t realized just how bad it was until he’d kissed Chanyeol. 

Junmyeon stays sitting on the floor. Feeling smaller than he’s ever felt before.

 

☓

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

On Sunday morning, Chanyeol is sitting in The Trouble Chair in the living room. As soon as they had gotten home from the recital the previous night, his mother confiscated his cell phone. His dad asked her if that was really necessary; cue his parents squabbling under their breath like Chanyeol—standing right by them—couldn’t hear them.

As soon as Mrs. Park’s voice reached a certain high pitch, Mr. Park told Chanyeol to go to his room, that they’d talk about everything tomorrow. 

He hadn’t slept. All Chanyeol could think about was his _Akaito_ ’s pale face, that _look_ Junmyeon had gotten when his mom snapped at him. And then he _agreed_. After everything. He hadn’t expected Junmyeon to step forward and claim him like some knight, but he hadn’t expected him to cower like that, either.

Chanyeol’s throat hurts from talking. Leaving out bits like getting wasted at State, he’s told his parents almost the whole story, from waking up to the string on his pinky to when Junmyeon came to see him after the recital. They’re quiet. His dad’s face is unreadable while his mom’s mouth twists in unnatural ways. 

“And then we kissed for the first time. For a little bit,” Chanyeol can’t look at his parents as he says it. The memory of it flares through him and it’s like he can feel Junmyeon’s hands against his body all over again. “Other than that, nothing happened. We walked into the hall, then ran into you.”

It’s strange for Chanyeol to have to relive the past six months by telling his parents about it. Hearing the story come out of his own mouth makes him painfully aware of just how much shit he’s in. All the ways he’s messed up.

His mom leans back in her chair, closing her eyes as she rubs at her temples. “I don’t even know where to begin.”

Mr. Park does. “You lied.” Chanyeol hangs his head. “You have lied to us almost every day since November. Let’s start there; why should we allow you to see that man when every part of your relationship with him was built while betraying your parents’ trust?”

Chanyeol winces, _ouch_. “It didn’t start out like that. I always thought that I would tell you guys right away, when I became tied. That I’d tell _everyone_. But then it was complicated, and I didn’t know what to do, and I knew you guys would freak out.”

“If you thought that, wouldn’t that be the first sign that it wasn’t a good situation to get into?” Mrs. Park asks, opening her eyes. Chanyeol hates how she says “situation,” like getting to know Junmyeon was some slimy process. He’s told her again and again it’s been relatively innocent, but her constant answer is, “ _Maybe for you, it was_.”

“Because we’re _Akaito_. Me and Junmyeon. We’re tied, and what's the difference between it happening now or five years down the road?”

Both of his parents frown. Mr. Park says, “Because you’re in high school. A kid. And he is a thirty one year-old man.”

“But _Akaito_ —”

“ _Akaito_ represents a fraction of relationships. Just because you’re tied to someone does not give you the green light: does not mean things will fall into place,” Mrs. Park says. “The fact that we have to try and explain that to you means that you are obviously not mature enough to understand it. Hence, not mature enough to date someone more than a decade older than you.”

Anger begins bubbling at the base of Chanyeol’s spine, building up his back. He dares to glare at his dad. “I’m not a _kid_ , and I know that _Akaito_ isn’t the be-all, end-all. Junmyeon told me. I know that it doesn’t always work out, but I—I really like him. I want to be with him. And try.”

“It’s not going to happen, not now,” Mrs. Park levelly says. Chanyeol misses the sympathy in her eyes, gritting his teeth. “The point of the matter is that you are a senior in high school. He is an adult, in charge of the situation. By continuing to see you and leading you on, he took advantage of you.”

“He didn’t take advantage of me! _I_ was the one pushing, _I_ was the one showing up to see him—”

“Chanyeol,” Mr. Park lowly warns as Chanyeol’s voice rises. 

“What?” Chanyeol huffs, his muscles stiff with frustration. “I know I lied, okay? It was wrong. I wish I could say that if I could go back, I’d tell you when it happened, but I am _so fucking happy_ that I met Junmyeon. And if you would have known, you wouldn’t let me see him. I _hate_ that I hurt you guys, it made me sick to lie, but I can’t—I can’t imagine not knowing Junmyeon. I don’t want to.”

Mrs. Park’s lips are pressed so tight that they disappear altogether. 

Chanyeol continues, feeling frantic, “I mean, it’s so easy for you guys to talk like you know everything. You guys became _Akaito_ in your twenties. You met and you fell in love and that was that.”

“It’s not that simple—”

Chanyeol does little for making a case on his maturity by snipping, “Yeah, right,” as he rolls his eyes. 

Both of his parents are quiet. Chanyeol opens his mouth to say more, but then his mom and dad give each other a long look that makes him stop. Makes unease sink into his chest. Before he can ask, his mom straightens in her chair and says, “Chanyeol, your father and I are not tied to each other.”

Blank. “What?”

“Your father and I are not _Akaito_.” Mrs. Park enunciates, delivering it as softly as she can. All the anger in her expression has faded to worry as Chanyeol thunks his back against the cushion of The Trouble Chair. He understands what she’s saying, but the words uselessly drag against him. He’s numb.

“We’re sorry, that we haven’t told you,” his dad says, wringing his hands together. “Your mother and I just decided, ever since you and Yura were toddlers, that we didn’t want you two to worry about whether we were tied or not. When you’re a child, all you care about is the red thread. You can’t understand the complexities. Yura, and you especially, found reassurance that your mother and I were _Akaito_. We thought it was important to let you believe in the power of something holding people together who love each other.”

Something clicks. The heat of anxiety hits him. “So _you_ guys lied to me?”

“We didn’t think that we’d end up telling you like this. Or at all, really. It doesn’t make much of a difference—”

“What do you mean that it doesn’t make much of a difference? With me and Junmyeon—”

“It’s not the same,” Mrs. Park cuts Chanyeol off, “because we met when we were both twenty-five. We had both met and broken up with our _Akaitos_. We were both _adults_ , well-settled into who we were, and at similar stages in our lives. We fell in love, and decided that we wanted to get married. Have kids. Be together for the rest of our lives. How does it make any difference if we were tied or not?”

Chanyeol doesn’t have an answer. 

“What we’re trying to say by telling you this, is that there is life outside of the red thread,” Mr. Park says. “I know how you feel about Junmyeon right now. I’ve been there—remember with clarity exactly where I was the moment my thread showed up. You may think that your world will end if you can’t be with him, but trust me, you’re going to get older and grow and hopefully, eventually see where your mother and I are coming from on this.”

Chanyeol’s anger at being talked down to is still quelled by the surprise. “But why? Why did you guys leave your _Akaito_?”

More silence. More glances filled with a married language that Chanyeol doesn’t understand. 

His dad speaks first. “My thread showed up when I was in college. My _Akaito_ was, to some extent, perfect for me. Except she was selfish. Spoiled. She lied to get what she wanted, manipulated those around her without much remorse. She made me miserable for years until I was this mushy, cracked version of myself. She was my soul mate, but continually chose to hurt me no matter what I did. Leaving her was the right decision.”

“Then my _Akaito_ had too many vices for me to keep up with,” Mrs. Park softly says before the quiet can settle. “He drank a lot. Smoked a lot. Got into some trouble because of it. We lived together. Had an adjoined bank account after we got engaged, figuring that’s where we were headed anyway because of the thread, and he blew two years worth of my savings on a week’s worth of gambling.”

“Terrible,” Mr. Park grumbles.

“In lots of ways, yes,” Mrs. Park admits. Her hand twitches in her lap, hesitating to reach out to Chanyeol. “But I know why we were soul mates. He could be so sweet, and we filled in the spaces of each other’s personalities. All it took was a look and we’d know exactly what the other needed.” She sighs, smoothing her hands over her skirt instead. “But people put too much romance into things that are broken. They think there’s something beautiful about a couple that constantly goes through hardship, as long as they stay together. Like it’s desirable to be miserable.”

“That’s why you left him?” Chanyeol asks.

“Yes. We reached a point where he was just making the same mistakes again and again. He’d swear to be better, then never make the effort. I lost a lot, those three years we were together. I stayed because of the thread. I left when I realized it didn’t control me.”

“But your strings are still there?” Chanyeol quietly asks. His parents both look down at their hands, spreading their fingers. 

“Yes.”

In elementary school, when Chanyeol’s kindergarten teacher explained the basics of how the _Akaito_ works, she said that both parties are tied together for life. The thread may get tangled and worn, but it never breaks. Chanyeol wonders if his parents can still feel it tugging sometimes, encouraging them away from each other and back to the soul mates that couldn’t give them the care that they needed.

He thinks of his parents. Their laughter in the early morning as his dad makes them breakfast and his mom puts their lunches together. How sometimes they still close their eyes when they kiss. Those nights after the business went under, when his dad would sit on the step outside the front door and stare blankly down the dark street. His mom would join him, still dressed in her all-white outfit from the restaurant. Side by side, knees knocking. Quiet. Then Mrs. Park would gently bring her husband back inside. 

And they aren’t _Akaito_. 

“So don’t think that we don’t know what we’re talking about; that we have no kind of understanding what you’re going through,” Mrs. Park says, carefully gauging Chanyeol’s expression. “I know it seems unfair, but please, trust me. Trust your father. You have to stop seeing Junmyeon, focus on other things. At least for now.”

Chanyeol has been in The Trouble Chair innumerable times since he was a toddler. He’s been put through all kinds of talks and groundings and taking away of privileges. Yelling and arguing and times his dad was trying to seriously address something and just ended up making jokes. Sometimes the sessions ended with massive guilt, or fiery frustration, or him sniffling back tears and his mom making him cookies even though he was supposed to be in trouble. 

But he never, ever had gotten out of The Trouble Chair mid-talk, then walked out the front door. Like now. His parents seem too surprised to say anything as the door shuts behind him. He barely catches the muffled “ _Park Chanyeol_!” as he takes his first stride away from the house. 

He knows he’s angry, betrayed, and upset about _everything_ , but they’re more like individual weights he’s holding in his arms instead of actual feelings. His hands feel shaky with the pressure of carrying them all. 

Chanyeol’s brain is scrambled, unable to grasp onto a thought long enough to have it settle. They aren’t going to let him see Junmyeon anymore. His parents aren’t _Akaito_. An edge of panic presses against him; his hand slides against the pocket of his jeans where he usually keeps his phone. The only thing that’s clear right now is that he wants to talk to Junmyeon. And he can’t. 

“Chanyeol!”

Chanyeol stiffens and turns to see Yura jogging down the sidewalk. Her Park-ness shows while running as she tries to loop her arm through the sleeve in her sweater and almost trips over her own feet. Any other day, any other situation, Chanyeol would have laughed.

When Yura reaches him, she’s out of breath. She wordlessly hands him the fleece jacket she has gripped in her other hand. Chanyeol looks it over. 

“This isn’t mine,” he says. In fact, it’s hers. Yura flips her hair, eyeing him. 

“I didn’t have time to check. Your speed-walking is no joke when you’re mad.” Yura nudges him with her elbow. He knows she must have heard everything in the living room; she probably had the door to her room crooked open, listening as the voices downstairs echoed to the second floor. He used to do the same thing when she was in The Trouble Chair. “Come on. Put it on. It’s kind of cold and I have a feeling you’re not going to want to go back home anytime soon.”

She doesn’t wait for him to answer, walking down the sidewalk. He doesn’t have the energy to argue and puts on the jacket. It’s short on his arms and tight across his torso, but it blocks the spring wind and he could care less about how he looks right now. 

The two of them walk, wander. The houses in their neighborhood are tightly crammed together. They could jump from one porch to another and wind their way across the blocks without having to touch the ground. Chanyeol feels claustrophobic as they go through the streets, leading Yura down another block that leads to the high school.

“I know,” Yura eventually murmurs when Chanyeol tells her their parents aren’t _Akaito_. The two of them found a bench by the soccer fields and are watching a flock of geese walk and shit their way across the grass. “I’ve known for a long time.”

The weight in Chanyeol’s arms gets heavier. His voice is dull as he asks, “How?”

The silence is punctuated by distant quacks before Yura says, “You remember that big cherry blossom festival we used to go to every year?”

“Yeah.” It’s been years since the last time they all went as a family, but memories of endless pink play in the back of Chanyeol’s mind. 

“There was one year we went, I think I was nine, so you were around six, and Mom took you and I to go to the bathroom while dad got us something to eat. We were all supposed to meet by the ferris wheel, but dad didn’t show up. Do you remember that at all? How panicked mom got when she couldn’t find him?”

Chanyeol shakes his head. They went to the festival so many years in a row, it’s all blurred.

“Well, you were being quite the little asshole, crying about being hungry and throwing a tantrum when mom wouldn’t stop at any of the stalls. She kept on telling you that dad was carrying her wallet so she couldn’t buy anything, but your little nugget of a brain couldn’t comprehend it.” Yura nudges Chanyeol. He attempts to smile, knowing she’s trying. “After pacing back and forth trying to find dad, this old lady eventually heard your crying and mom’s fiftieth explanation, and bought us these huge brown sugar elephant ears. While you were stuffing your face, I asked mom why she wouldn’t just follow her string. Dad was at the end of it, somewhere. She was so frazzled from everything that all she said was, ‘I can’t.’ I guess I just put things together from there.”

Chanyeol knows he should be surprised, but he isn’t. Yura is smart. Always has been. She doesn’t need things spelled out for her like he does. 

“But if you knew, why didn’t you tell me?” 

“I don’t know. Some stupid, protective reasoning that comes with being a big sister.”

“You’re saying I couldn’t handle knowing.” Chanyeol sounds bitter even to his own ears. Yura gives one of them a yank. 

“No. I’m saying that the way you believe in things like the _Akaito_ , or Mom and Dad’s relationship, isn’t something I wanted to mess with. You have this resilience, this _faith_ in things that I’ve never really been able to achieve. I’ve always been jealous of that.”

Chanyeol brushes off the compliment. “But Mom and Dad, they lied.”

A particularly harsh wind brushes by. Yura reaches over to zip up her jacket on Chanyeol the rest of the way. 

“So? Chanyeol, you were one of the most sensitive kids in our neighborhood. If you found steady ground with something, you clung to it. Like Baekhyun. Those damn ferrets. The Fated Fairy Tales. Seriously ask yourself, what harm came with Mom and Dad letting you believe that they were _Akaito_?”

Chanyeol is quick to open his mouth, ready to give a reason, but realizes he doesn’t have one. 

Yura continues, “They love you, and me. They love each other. The fact that they aren’t tied doesn’t invalidate anything in the past, and it doesn’t change any part of our future. This isn’t some sort of betrayal, this is you having to realize that your childhood fantasy of the thread isn’t what you had built it up to be.”

“I don’t want your thesis right now, Yura,” Chanyeol grumbles, even though she’s right. 

“I know, I know. I’m sorry.”

The two of them become quiet. After successfully flying back for the spring, the geese seem to have lost all sense of direction and wobble across the field in a disorganized mass. Chanyeol thinks about that first day meeting Junmyeon in the park. How he told him about geese flying overhead and using him as a moving target to shit on. That was the first time he’d ever made Junmyeon laugh, turning un-princely for just a moment as his face scrunched up. 

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Chanyeol says, mostly to himself. Of course Yura takes it upon herself to answer. 

“I think you need to listen to Mom and Dad,” she says. When Chanyeol side-eyes her she quickly adds, “Just for a little bit. Right now they’re freaked out. So lay low, right? Come home straight from school, do your homework, and maybe by the time you graduate, the dust will have settled and they can think clearly instead of acting like evil overlords and banning you from seeing your _Akaito_.”

Chanyeol groans, pressing his palms against his face. “In The Fated Fairy Tales, being banned from seeing who you were tied to used to seem so romantic.”

“Yeah, well, Junmyeon sure is Mr. Charming, but this definitely isn’t some fairy tale.” She pats his back.

Chanyeol slightly lifts one of his hands to peer at her. “He is really hot, isn’t he?”

Yura smiles, nodding. “Like, ridiculously hot. Maybe not when he was cowering in front of Mom, but you guys looked _great_ together for those four seconds before she interrupted you.” Yura stands. She pulls and tugs at Chanyeol’s arms until he’s standing, too. “Even though, after Mom is done making him look like he just shit himself, I’ll need to properly threaten to punch his pretty little face if he ever hurts you.”

As small as Yura is, Chanyeol thinks that Junmyeon just might want to listen to her.

“You think there’s going to be a time where Mom is okay with him?” 

The two of them start walking closer to the soccer field. Yura takes her time replying as they approach the flock of geese. The birds start shuffling away, eyeing them warily. 

“Yeah. Eventually. Maybe not anytime soon, but I think that as long as you let things come and go in their own time, there will be a day when I threaten your _Akaito_ as a way of welcoming him into the family.” 

It’s weird, but Chanyeol finds a sense of comfort in that. He manages to smile, feeling a fraction better.

Chanyeol is the one who does it first, sprinting as fast as he can toward the cluster of geese. He yells at the top of his lungs, waving his arms like some maniac as the birds squawk and try to scramble away without having to take off. Yura is right behind him. They part through the sections of geese, voices breaking into laughter as they run around the fields like idiots. 

Chanyeol slips on a particularly impressive mound of shit, his back cracking against the ground. He then is instantly reminded that geese are mean little fuckers as one of the bigger birds hisses and snaps at his arm. Yura is crying from laughing so hard as she runs over, taking off her jacket to bat the goose away from her little brother. The goose pumps its wingspan and takes off, leaving Chanyeol and Yura panting on the grass, and ascends until they’re little specks in a patch of green, swallowed by the city. 

 

☓

 

_You’re a mess_ , Junmyeon thinks to himself for the umpteenth time Monday morning. His fingers can’t seem to coordinate on his keyboard—he’s had to scrap the past three spreadsheets he’d been working on after catching stupid mistakes he made at the beginning. The right leg of his pants is damp where he’d spilled scalding hot coffee that Minseok had gotten for him. Every time he moves the material scratches at the fresh burn on his thigh. 

Chanyeol hasn’t called him, or texted. In a fit of panic last night, Junmyeon had sent him a text asking if he was okay, only to realize that Chanyeol’s parents had probably confiscated his phone. Guilt has woven its way through his ribs, tightening every time he thinks of the way Chanyeol looked at him as he walked out of the hallway. 

He doesn’t know what to do.

So he tries to bottle everything down and work. Get something done. But he only ends up with his forehead pressed against the keyboard, the constant press on the keys sprouting nonsense across the spreadsheet. 

“Mr. Kim?” 

Junmyeon startles, whipping his head up to see his boss’ secretary lingering in the opening of his cubicle. She takes in the red imprint of the keyboard across his forehead and says in a slight daze, “Mr. Cress would like to see you in his office.”

_Great_. Mr. Cress usually only calls Junmyeon into his office to unload more of the files _he’s_ supposed to be working on. His boss only comes in about three times a week, usually to meet with the other superiors and keep up appearances with Mrs. Lachowski and Mr. Miller. 

Junmyeon can’t even summon up a smile as he curtly nods then rises from his desk. His head is still swimming with Chanyeol and Mr. and Mrs. Park as he gets into the elevator and rises three floors up; he can’t remember sinking into the leather chair in front of Mr. Cress’ desk, but suddenly he’s there. He blinks.

“Mr. Kim,” Mr. Cress gruffly says as a greeting. He’s standing with his hands clasped behind his back, gazing out the paneled glass that takes up one entire wall of his office. From so high up, it gives Junmyeon a breathtaking view of the city’s skyline.

“Mr. Cress,” Junmyeon replies, just as short. Their relationship isn’t the best. As many compliments Mr. Cress gives Junmyeon, along with all the smarmy office-talk, both of them know everything is under pretense and Junmyeon is just a malleable pawn under his boss’ hand. 

Not to mention, they went golfing once when Junmyeon was promoted directly beneath Mr. Cress, and Junmyeon promptly kicked his ass across the green. He was never asked to join him again. 

Mr. Cress takes in a deep breath, mostly theatrics, as he slowly turns away from the window. The portion of the room he’s standing in is on a platform, so that when his employees sit in the chair Junmyeon’s sitting in, they have to tilt their head to look up at him. 

“Mr. Kim, how long have you been with Lachowski, Miller  & Co.?”  
Junmyeon knows _he_ knows, but says, “Seven years now.”

He hates how Mr. Cress purposefully dawdles the conversation. The man is in his early sixties, but the last time he actually sat in a cubicle was almost two decades ago. He has dyed black hair, his sideburns looking unnatural by the way the chemicals have pigmented his skin. His black suit is nice, but he’s ruined it with a tie and matching pocket square that look like a pukey tan design from the seventies.

“Right. Seven years. Seven years, and I have heard and seen nothing but positive things about you. You have easily become one of our company’s most valued employees.” Mr. Cress looks Junmyeon up and down. Junmyeon can’t find it within himself to sit straight in the chair, lounging back like he’s in his own living room. Ever since his last pass-up for a promotion, Junmyeon hasn’t been trying to impress his boss anymore. Mr. Cress is just a corporate asshole. Nothing to be intimidated by.

Now Mrs. Park, he’s _terrified of_. 

“I work hard, sir,” Junmyeon says when it’s obvious Mr. Cress is waiting for him to chime in. He wishes that the older man would just shut up and get to what he wants. 

“That much is obvious.” Mr. Cress sits down with a smirk that pricks Junmyeon’s nerves. He looks like a child sitting behind his desk; its proportions are so overdone to look grand and imperial that it dwarfs him. “Apparently that is one of many reasons why you are coveted in our field of work.” His boss leans forward, linking his fingers on his desk. “So Mr. Kim, I suppose I shouldn’t have been so surprised when I was informed that you were taking part in private dealings with a representative of one of your clients.”

The words are a baseball bat smacking against the side of Junmyeon’s head. Any other week he could have pretended to be indifferent—fought any facial ticks or fidgeting fingers that would betray him right away. Not today. Junmyeon is balanced so precariously on his sanity that his blood sparks with panic, making him flinch and flush as his jaw drops open.

Mr. Cress nods in an _I knew it_ kind of way, sighing through his nose so hard that it ruffles the vase of white chrysanthemums at his right. “I thought that after seven years of giving Lachowski, Miller  & Co. your everything, you wouldn’t be the type to so easily betray the company. Do you deny having meetings outside of the company for privatized offers?”

_Oh God_. Junmyeon is going to be sick. He can feel the coffee roiling in his stomach, ready to make a second appearance in his lap. This can’t be happening. He’d been _so_ goddamn careful. Why does he always freeze like this in the moments that matter the most? It’s more complicated than _yes_ or _no_ , but all he can manage is a shaky, “I do not, sir.”

With practiced ease and that same stupid curl of his lips, Mr. Cress leans back in his chair. “That’s too bad. I understand that you were frustrated from not having been promoted last November—”

Anger flickers through Junmyeon’s terror. 

“—but being young as you are, perhaps you can now see why we went with someone else. In this company, patience is virtue, Mr. Kim. As is loyalty. Lachowski, Miller & Co. has no interest in employees who show ugly colors such as yours.”

Junmyeon gulps, sure that his tie is about to suffocate the last breaths out of him. “How did—you—”

“I have sources, Mr. Kim. Should you choose to battle my claims, I can assure you now that I have plenty enough evidence to make a case on exterminating your contract with the company.” 

“There were—no actual dealings. Just—just an offer. That I didn’t take.” Junmyeon loathes how his own shaky voice betrays him. He’s sweating. Profusely. He’s going to get fired. He’s never going to work at this level of accounting again. His whole career is seconds away from going up in flames. 

Another sigh from his boss. He’s obviously trying to act disappointed, but Junmyeon figures this is the most lively he’s seen him in the past year. “Seven years, Mr. Kim. I know that you have a much better understanding of our company’s protocol than that. Up until recently, you have followed it to the ’t.’ You know that the first sign of any private offers, you need to immediately notify your superior. You failed to do that, meeting up with the representative more than once.”

_How does he know_? Junmyeon’s brain yells at him, but he grits his teeth. It’s inarguable. He knew that from the moment the woman first slid that three ring binder across the table to him. “I understand.”

A deadweight silence. Like Mr. Cress just wants to watch him saturate in this, flounder and drown. It takes all of Junmyeon’s strength to return his boss’ stare. He wants to try and maintain a little poise as he’s fired. If he can just make it through this, then he can get to the bathroom and puke his guts out instead of making a scene. 

“But…” Mr. Cress slowly says. Junmyeon didn’t realize how tightly his muscles were clamped until he flinches with surprise again. His boss’ eyes flick to the closed door behind them, voice lowering as he continues, “As I have said before, you are one of our company’s most valued employees. It would be an utter shame to lose someone with your talent and skill-set.”

Junmyeon’s mouth drops open for the second time. He doesn’t understand. 

Mr. Cress points a thick finger at Junmyeon, and says, “I don’t do this often, Mr. Kim, so listen to me carefully. My source and I are the only two people in the entire company that know about your little side-dealings with one of our biggest clients. I have not yet filed any paperwork—put anything down that could otherwise incriminate or set into motion your contract’s extermination.”

Junmyeon’s heart is thudding in a sickly way. He feels even more uneasy, like some sort of toy in Mr. Cress’ playpen. “What?”

“I am willing,” Mr. Cress says, “to overlook this incident. Pretend it never happened. If you would like that—to keep your job at Lachowski, Miller  & Co.—there are a couple stipulations that must take place between the two of us.”

“Such as?”

“You will take on the organization and filing of our sector’s caseloads—” That’s Mr. Cress’ job. “—along with summarizing and detailing the quarterly reports from each of our clients—” Also Mr. Cress’ job. “—and dealing with the slush from weekly A2 and C4 reports to ready them for my monthly presentations with the uppers.” Something Mr. Cress usually passes off to Junmyeon or Minseok anyway.

Junmyeon’s throat constricts with something. It’s not until he looks down at his lap and sees how his fists are clenched into fists that he realizes it’s rage. He’s pissed, fingernails digging into his palms with a pain he barely registers. Somehow he bites out, “I’m guessing that none of this will be an official part of my job description.”

“Not technically.” Mr. Cress still has the balls to look smug. “I thought it would go without saying, but your new responsibilities will not be reflected in your payroll. You should be thankful to have any payroll at all, honestly, which is why I will also be cutting your annual raise percentage by 2.5. As repentance to the company.”

_Asshole_. Junmyeon can feel his arms start to shake. What _does_ go without saying is where that cut is going to go: right into Mr. Cress’ pocket. All of his fear has burned up like dry cotton, leaving behind ashes that Junmyeon can taste on the back of his tongue.

“This sounds an awful lot like blackmail, sir.”

“I wouldn’t word it so harshly.”

“No? You’re using personal information to threaten and manipulate me. Is there another phrase you prefer?”

Mr. Cress is unfazed. His eyebrows are set into an uncaring frown. “I call it negotiation.”

“I call it bullshit.” Junmyeon stands to his feet. He’s running on fumes but they’ve gotten him high enough to not give a fuck. He acts without thinking. “I quit.”

That _does_ seem to faze Mr. Cress. This time, he’s the one that flinches, throat turning red. “ _Mr. Kim_ , in this situation, I find that to be very unwise. I have more than enough compiled against you to make sure that you will never be able to get a job in accounting again. You’re ass-deep in Lachowski, Miller & Co. and I doubt that any other company would be interested in taking someone so thoroughly fucked-over and ruined should you choose to walk out of my office right now.”

Junmyeon steps onto the platform, leaning over the desk of the worst boss he’s ever had. The one who’s screwed him out of every promotion that’s come his way. “You said yourself that you haven’t filed anything against me. It takes time to get the papers, discuss it with your superiors, and file it as a request. Know how quick and easy it is for me to quit?”

Mr. Cress sputters something, his tan-in-a-can color starting to turn a blotchy purple. With a smirk, Junmyeon strides across the room. He turns as he reaches the door, gives his soon-to-be-ex boss the middle finger. “This easy,” Junmyeon says, extending his other middle finger in the air. “This quick.” Then he walks out of the office and slams the door behind himself. 

 

☓

 

Junmyeon is sick to his stomach when he reaches the lobby of the building, then again when he gets home and is hit with a fresh wave of what just happened. The acrid upheaval of his coffee burns his throat and nose. He doesn’t feel as badass anymore, sullenly chewing down Tums as the reality of his new situation settles.

He’s such an _idiot_. That was his _job_. His _income_. 

More panic. More sitting on the floor of his apartment and remembering just how small and insignificant he is in this huge city. With shaking hands he emails the representative from his (ex) client and explains the situation, warns her that since his (ex) boss knows about their meetings, someone else might be privy who can screw her over just as hard. Junmyeon mentions in what he hopes is a joking manner that he’s definitely leaning toward taking her up on the job offer, but he’s too frazzled to tell if it makes him sound insane or not. 

By the time Minseok stops by later, Junmyeon is in a state of numbness. Minseok heaves a crate full of Junmyeon’s office things onto his couch. He wipes sweat off his forehead and waves off Junmyeon’s constant babbling of thanks. 

“How deep in shit do you think I am?” Junmyeon asks after retrieving Minseok a glass of water. He stares at the crate and a new black hole sucks its way into the pit of his stomach. 

Minseok looks like he’s mentally calculating the level of poop in his head before he says, “Kind of tough to know for sure. The other superiors don’t take Cress too seriously, but the fact that you quit without putting in two weeks notice has probably ruffled a couple feathers. Left them in the lurch. I’d say it’s definitely not as bad as getting fired, but you can’t file for unemployment.”

“And I’m not going to be able to get any good references when I’m applying to other companies,” Junmyeon quietly says. “I worked there all seven years past my internship, I don’t have any other relevant people to pull from.”

“What about the offer that started this all in the first place?” Minseok asks. Junmyeon drags his eyes over to his laptop, still open-faced on his table. 

“It’s a possibility. I don't know if they’d still be interested in taking me in all this mess.”

Junmyeon’s suspicions are confirmed long after Minseok leaves. As shadows begin creeping through his apartment, he turns every light on, not ready to let the night close in when he feels so unsettled. Junmyeon sits on his couch and blares the TV, trying to distract his thoughts as he checks his mail over and over again. Around ten o’clock, he receives an email from the representative. 

He reads it once, twice, then grits his teeth to will past another wave of nausea. Junmyeon wants to throw his laptop but his hands are shaking too much so he pushes it to the couch cushion. 

_I apologize for getting back to you so late, but I had to speak with my superiors as we decided our next step before replying to you. With the possibility of our plans being exposed before we can set any of them into motion, we have decided to put a temporary pause on the project. I will relay information to you as it comes, but with this sensitive matter it puts more than a dozen of us at risk, and the best way to approach is as slowly and quietly as possible. As unfortunate as your current situation is, know that once we are moving forward again, the offer will still stand._

Junmyeon feels like he’s being tortured; laying as rocks are piled on his chest, crushing breath from his lungs. It’s his own fault. All this time, he’s had his job. Through boyfriends and breakups and family crisis, he’s been able to wake up five times a week and go to Lachowski, Miller,  & Co. He never realized what a blessing that kind of certainty was until now. His career had been one of his greatest senses of pride—what he’d worked for his whole life. And now it was a big question mark, along with how he was going to take care of bills once his savings ran out.

And Chanyeol. Oh God. Just the thought of him makes Junmyeon grasp at his chest. He can hear Mrs. Park, sharp and loud. 

“You _are the actual adult in this situation._ You _are the one with the responsibility._ ”

Adults don’t continue with meetings that could possibly trivialize their whole career. Adults don't quit their high-paying job in a fit of angered desperation, _especially_ if they don’t have anything to fall back on. Especially _especially_ doing it all while firing off double middle fingers. He can barely take care of himself, how is he supposed to take care of Chanyeol?

He can’t. 

That night, everything tangles around him with terrifying clarity. 

 

☓

 

On Friday, Mrs. Park begrudgingly hands Chanyeol’s cell phone back to him. 

“Don’t make me regret it,” she says, giving him a look that makes the smile melt right off his face. 

“Yes ma’am.”

Chanyeol dutifully texts Baekhyun first, telling him he has his phone back. He gifts his best friend with a set of selfies. 

<c _ongrats_ > Baekhyun texts back. < _didnt know how much longer i could live w/o u sending me pics of urself._ >

Chanyeol grins at his camera with a peace sign. _Click_. 

He sends it to Baekhyun along with,  < _This is me, looking hot, ignoring your sarcasm_. >

< _stop texting me n talk to ur old man_ >

_Junmyeon_. Chanyeol’s stomach swoops at the thought. The past five days have dragged on for an eternity. He doesn’t care about what happened the last time they saw each other. All Chanyeol wants is to talk to Junmyeon, hear his voice, then maybe he can start to figure out his footing. 

When he calls, Junmyeon doesn’t answer. He hangs up and sends a text, telling his _Akaito_ that his phone is back in his hands and he really wants him to call. Chanyeol checks the time on his phone, knowing that Junmyeon should have been home from work by now. Maybe he’s staying late. 

It’s four hours later when Junmyeon finally calls. Chanyeol rushes to his room, shuts the door behind himself, then jumps stomach-first onto his bed. He’s almost breathless when he answers with, “ _Junmyeon_.”

There’s some rustling on the other end, but Junmyeon doesn’t speak. Chanyeol asks, “You there?” before Junmyeon says, “Hi, Chanyeol.”

Junmyeon sounds so small and quiet but Chanyeol can’t help and smile at his voice. A strange kind of solace ebbs into him, and suddenly he can’t stop talking. “Are you doing alright? Fuck, I’m so glad you called. It’s so weird to have my phone back and I didn’t know how much I used it every day until I didn’t have it. And if feels like years since we’ve last had contact. You know? We were basically on different planets.”

More silence, then, “Chanyeol, we need to talk.”

“I thought that’s what we were doing,” Chanyeol absentmindedly says, rolling onto his back. 

“We are, but, I mean,” Junmyeon hesitates. It makes Chanyeol’s eyebrows furrow. “Not like this. I need to talk to you face-to-face.”

Chanyeol looks at the closed door to his room. “I don’t think that’s going to happen right now. My parents have put me on this weird Junmyeon Probation. I want to see you, too, but I have to take things easy, at least until they calm down.”

“That’s not what—”

“Did you want to talk about what happened on Saturday? Because it’s not big deal,” Chanyeol quickly says. “It’s not really about you, my parents just aren’t happy with _me_. I don’t want you to feel crappy about it because it’s my own fault.”

Chanyeol hates the idea that Junmyeon might regret what happened between them in the dressing room. What he hates even more is when his words are met with another round of quiet. He impatiently clacks his teeth. An edge of something indistinguishable presses against him. “Junmyeon, are you okay?”

“No,” Junmyeon answers without any energy. “I’m not, Chanyeol. I’m really fucking not.”

Chanyeol sits up on his bed, alarmed. “What’s going on?”

“I need to see you. Is it possible for you to meet me somewhere tomorrow? I’ll drive to your district.”

The edge worriedly jabs against Chanyeol’s throat. He tries to keep it out of his voice as he replies, “Can’t it wait? I told you that my parents aren’t going to let me meet up with you right now.” He fails to sound joking when he adds, “Do you really miss me that much, can’t wait another day?” 

“Chanyeol. It can’t wait because it’s really important. I need you to do this for me.”

“Whatever it is, just tell me. Now. I’m listening.”

“You don’t understand. I…I’m not doing this over the phone, okay?”

The pit of Chanyeol’s stomach drops. “Doing _what_? Junmyeon tell me what’s going on.”

“ _Please_ ,” Junmyeon breathes, the pain in his tone barely registering through Chanyeol’s sudden dread. “See me tomorrow and I’ll answer everything. I’ll tell you everything. You deserve that.”

And now Chanyeol _knows_. He can’t tell if it’s the power of the string, or the way he’s gotten to know every nuance of Junmyeon over the past half year, but the realization turns his blood to ice. 

“ _No_.”

“Chanyeol—”

“Stop. Seriously. _Stop_.” Nothing processes but panic. “Just stop talking.”

“Tomorrow—” Junmyeon tries again. 

“I said _no_.” Chanyeol knows he sounds terrible but he doesn’t care. “Don’t—is it my parents? Because they’ll calm down. It’s not—it’s not the end.”

“Come, and we can talk about it. I can explain.”

“ _I’m not going to_.”

“Don’t make this harder. I already feel like I’m—you can’t just block out what I want.”

“Is this what you fucking _want_?” Chanyeol’s voice rises. “To not be with me? To throw it all away because of some stupid shit that happened? Because you got _scared_?”

He doesn’t expect Junmyeon to sharply reply, “It’s not that simple. You think it’s any easier for me? I hate myself for having to do this.”

“Then don’t!”

Junmyeon seems to take a deep breath. “I’m begging you, Chanyeol.”

Chanyeol squeezes his eyes shut. He punches his comforter, desperate anger billowing beneath his chest. This isn’t happening. It can’t be. “No.”

“That’s not going to change anything.”

He isn’t thinking right. Chanyeol’s chest is heaving, room spinning around him, as he grits out, “Asshole. You _asshole_.”  
“I—”

But Chanyeol is done listening. A cocktail of fear and rage hits the back of his throat, metallic-tasting. He’s shaking. “I gave you _everything_. And now you’re going to give up on me like this?” His eyes dart around his room, looking for something to grab onto to keep himself from feeling like he’s about to sink right through the ground. “I’m not letting that happen.”

“It doesn’t work like that. You can’t—”

“Why are you doing this to me?” Chanyeol moans. “Why do you keep on throwing me around? I’ll do whatever you want. Give whatever you want. Just stop pushing me away. _Please_.”

“I’ve fucked up, okay? Ruined things. If you’d just let me—”

Chanyeol cringes and ends the call like his phone has scalded him, thoughts splattered. Only a few seconds pass before Junmyeon is calling again. Chanyeol stands, almost hyperventilating with his hands on his head, and he paces his room. The vibrating saws away at the nerves in his neck. Only a few moments of silence pass after the ended call before it starts again. 

With uneasy hands, he picks up his phone, overrun by anguish as he says, “ _Fuck you_ ,” before Junmyeon can say anything. He instantly wants to take it back and apologize. Junmyeon doesn’t deserve that. Junmyeon is trying his best and Chanyeol has never been so acidic in his life. Chanyeol cares _so fucking much_ about him, which is why this stings in such a deathly way. But he feels like he’s ricocheting through space and tries throwing out a possible anchor when he continues, “You don’t want to be with me? Fine. It’s over. Run and hide and fuck things up more than you’ve already done.”

Chanyeol hangs up before Junmyeon can reply, sure that his heart would implode if he had to listen to his _Akaito_ say one more word. The phone vibrates again, and all he can do is miserably look at the screen as that picture of Junmyeon in his ugly Christmas sweater stares up at him. It happens five more times before Chanyeol grits his teeth and texts Junmyeon like the immature teenager the man always assumes him to be, < _Stop calling me. You’re ending this. Message received. Leave me alone._ >

Then he deletes Junmyeon’s contact information and blocks his number before he can give it any more thought. 

 

☓

 

Chanyeol thinks that hearts are a strange thing. It’s pumping away like it’s been doing for the past eighteen years, thrumming softly through the darkness of his room, but it _hurts_. Laying on his back, he rubs at his chest, wondering how emotions like sadness, desperation, and regret manage to physically manifest beneath his ribs. 

His body is ill; unwell, like he handed over his actual heart to Junmyeon only to have it crushed between his _Akaito_ ’s palms. Heartbreak in theory is understandable, but to actually experience it feels like he’s being filleted open. The new clarity is sickening. 

He groans, thinking for the thousandth time that he needs to call Junmyeon. He should have agreed to see him, instead of panicking and making everything ten times worse. Maybe—probably—Junmyeon would have still ended things, but there had to be a better way to do things than what happened. Chanyeol knows that’s what Junmyeon was trying to do. Trying to be an adult: treat Chanyeol like an adult, deserving of his time and explanation. Face-to-face, like he said. 

Chanyeol’s heart squeezes in a whine. He waits for the ceiling to crumble down on him, trying to think of how to make things right. 

 

☓

 

Two slow weeks pass. Tonight is much, much harder than the other nights, for some reason. It surprises Junmyeon when he naturally reaches for a bottle of bourbon in the liquor store down the street from his apartment. Junmyeon is raw beneath the fluorescent lights. He thinks of his father, then buys rum instead. It still gives a satisfying burn when he gets it home and cracks open the bottle, swallowing down a couple gulps before bothering with a glass. 

He knows getting drunk is pathetic, but it’s better to numb himself than to feel the painful self-hatred that comes with every thought of Chanyeol. He tried over and over again to contact the kid, to no avail. As hard as it is to believe, it seems like Chanyeol really meant it when he said, _leave me alone_. 

“It’s over. It’s done,” he mumbles over the gurgle of pouring another glass. Junmyeon can still hear Chanyeol yelling at him, _feel_ the way he said, “ _Fuck you_ ” with such tenacity that Junmyeon was shocked wordless. It proves how terrible Junmyeon is. Chanyeol is one of the most sweet, wonderful people he’s ever met, and he managed to make the kid spit venom.

This is what he’d wanted all along, right? Space. To not be attached to anyone. The thread tied around his pinky begs to differ, but maybe someday the reminder of Chanyeol won’t make his chest feel like it’s about to be split open. Junmyeon has healed before. He will heal again. Chanyeol will hate him forever, which he deserves, but the boy’s going to find his own happiness, separate from his _Akaito_. 

Junmyeon’s throat tightens in some sort of threat of a sob, so he gulps down more rum to muffle it. 

He’s going to be okay. He’s going to be okay. He’s going to be okay. 

His fourth drink in, Junmyeon doesn’t think he’s going to be okay. He’s swimmingly drunk. Hates the way his body feels— _especially_ hates that the liquor hasn’t muffled the sick pit of his stomach and he’s starting to feel desperate to talk to someone, anyone. It didn’t hurt quite like this when Jongdae left. Or the boyfriend before that. Or the one before _that_. 

Why is tonight, out of all nights, so _hard_? Why can’t he breathe right? Junmyeon can’t tread alone in his own thoughts much longer. He knows Minseok sleeps like a brick but tries calling him anyway. No answer. His chest constricts as he falls to his couch, the apartment has never been so suffocating before. Junmyeon thinks about calling his mom, or maybe his dad, but even with the hours of time difference, they’d be long asleep. He chokes a humorless laugh once he realizes he even gave it a _thought_. 

Another drink, another try to forget. 

The apartment is closing in on him. He puts the rum away with a queasy stomach then goes to stick his head out the window to feel the cold air crash through his lungs. 

It doesn’t help. He’s desperate.

Junmyeon has never felt so out of himself. It’s like he’s watching someone else’s hands as his fingers clumsily send a text. 

< _yes_ >

Twenty minutes pass. In that time, Junmyeon tries to convince himself he’s more sober than he really is, washing his face and brushing his teeth, but he still smells like Captain Morgan when he goes down to the lobby to let Yixing inside the building. 

His stomach is bloated, twisted, but it’s a relief to see someone, anyone.

They silently walk across the lobby. Yixing stands close as he strokes Junmyeon’s arm with light touches. Talking takes too much energy and thought, and all Junmyeon wants is to mindlessly fill himself. He can smell vodka and the sticky sweet scent of pot on Yixing once they’re ascending in the elevator. He turns his head to face the dancer, examining his pretty bloodshot eyes. 

“Rough night?” Junmyeon mumbles. The inside of his wrist tickles as Yixing brushes his fingers over his pulse. 

“Misery loves company and all that,” Yixing replies, looking Junmyeon up and down the same scrutiny. Then he leans, his breath sweeping over Junmyeon’s ear as he says, “I want you to fuck it out of me.”

Hunger rises with a growl, mixes with the rum sloshing around his stomach and it makes it easier to think, _I’m okay_ again. Junmyeon clings to the feeling as he takes Yixing inside his apartment, straight to his bedroom. It’s four in the morning and the world seems dark and dead outside his window so he flicks the light on. Yixing is just like Junmyeon remembers, emanating a subtle softness; delicacy, even past the hard angles that make up his face and body.

There’s no preamble as he cups the back of Yixing’s neck and pulls him in for a kiss. It’s rough, nips between the harsh press of their tongues. Yixing tastes sour but the little whines he makes as Junmyeon takes and takes are terribly sweet. 

Wasting no time, Yixing presses his hot hands beneath the hem of Junmyeon’s shirt. Junmyeon warningly bites the dancer’s bottom lip and pushes them away. He grabs the bottom of Yixing’s tank top, and slides it up, over his head as he obediently raises his arms. Yixing’s breathing hitches as Junmyeon licks and kisses his way down his neck, to his collarbone, baring his teeth and scraping them across pale skin to leave streaks of agitated pink. Junmyeon is impatient, demandingly digging his fingertips across defined pectorals, the grooves of ribs, then quivering abs before hooking in the waistband of Yixing’s jeans. 

He feels Yixing try and reach for his shirt again and nudges him away before fumbling, slightly uncoordinated, to get rid of the dancer’s pants and briefs. Soft skin. Nervous breaths. Completely bare, Yixing doesn’t shy away at all, but the muscles in his thighs twitch as Junmyeon drags his thumbs over the front V of his bare hips, eyes taking in every inch of him. Junmyeon teases, he presses, never exactly in the right place.

_It’s over. It’s done_ , Junmyeon repeats to himself. He relishes the control as he maneuvers Yixing to his bed and leers down at him. Yixing is beautiful against the covers. High and pliant with puffy lips, and looking at Junmyeon with undiluted want that has nothing to do with pink lemonade, park walks, or nights spent talking on the phone. 

Junmyeon takes his time gathering the lube and condom, aware of just how drunk he still is as he tries rounding the side of his mattress and ends up knocking straight into it. 

Yixing watches. Yixing reaches out to him. Yixing whispers, “Come here.”

Junmyeon climbs over his naked body. 

 

☓

 

“Mind if I shower?” Yixing softly asks the next morning. There’s an awkward chunk of space between them on the mattress: pretending to have manners for each other’s personal bubble like they hadn’t fucked three times last night. The first time didn’t count much, anyway. Junmyeon had a major case of limp dick because of the alcohol and embarrassedly put all of his effort into giving Yixing what he hoped was the best, most thorough blowjob of his life as a way to apologize. 

But if it’s any indication, the way Yixing slumps off the bed and limps out of the room after Junmyeon gives a nod shows the next two times more than made up for it. Junmyeon watches Yixing’s bare ass before he disappears into the hall, wanting to admire the handiwork against his skin, but the feeling falls short. 

He’s numb, just like he wanted. Any other one night stand, he would have hoped that his partner would have been gone by the time he woke up, but there’s something about Yixing that he recognizes: almost prefers him to stick around. It’s better to have a stranger taking up space in his apartment than to be alone. 

Junmyeon listens to the water run through the pipes as Yixing showers. His head feels like it weighs fifty pounds and his body is wracked with the sludgy kind of hangover that he knows is going to linger all day. He can’t bring himself to even wiggle out of the sheets he’s tangled in. They’re crusty and smell like sweat. Not that he’s looking much better. 

He starts to drift off again, exhausted, when the familiar sound of his front door opening makes his eyes open. 

_Is Yixing leaving_? he wonders, grimacing as he rouses himself from his bed and drags on his boxers. He steps into the hall. 

No. Yixing is still in the shower. 

And Chanyeol is standing in his apartment. 

He just spent the night idolizing Yixing but it all fades in an instant as he takes in the ruffled appearance of his _Akaito_. Chanyeol isn’t wearing a hat, or a jacket. His hair is windswept and his cheeks and ears are pink from the cold snap. He’s heart-breakingly beautiful and a rush of loss slams against Junmyeon all over again. 

“I’m sorry,” Chanyeol blurts, sounding completely out of breath. Junmyeon can’t move, lingering in the hall and staring with an open mouth. “I shouldn’t have said any of that and I was terrible and I know that you probably aren’t going to change your mind but I had to do _something_. And I should have called but I was so scared and I didn’t know how to fix—”

“I…thought—” Junmyeon rasps out, mouth dry and cracked. 

Chanyeol wrings his hands so hard his fingers turn white. “I told my Mom I was coming then left before she could say anything and she’s probably pissed and I’ll be grounded forever but I had to come because I really messed things up when you called and I just freaked out and said things so I _needed_ to see you. To apologize, at least. Or to—”

“You shouldn’t have come here,” Junmyeon manages to say after Chanyeol stops babbling.

Then the shower stops running. It’s such a small noise, in retrospect. Nothing worth noticing on a day to day basis, but for some reason it sounds like a bomb going off to Junmyeon’s ears. 

_Shit,_ Junmyeon thinks as Chanyeol frowns and looks past him. 

“Is someone—”

Yixing peers then walks out of the bathroom, naked, soaking wet and leaving a trail of water in his wake. He sheepishly smiles at Junmyeon, remaining oblivious as he says, “Oh, hey. I was going to say, I could help clean you up next. Want to join—” Then Yixing notices Chanyeol and stops short, tilting his head in curiosity and not flinching to cover himself up. “Hi.”

All Junmyeon can do is watch as things dawn on his _Akaito_ , like witnessing a tremendous car accident but wishing he was in the driver’s seat. Chanyeol’s face falls. Junmyeon hates himself. He has done such a perfect job of hurting him.

When Chanyeol doesn’t instantly reply, Yixing turns to Junmyeon. “Who’s he?”

“His _Akaito_. I’m his _Akaito_.” Chanyeol slowly sinks down, crouching with his hands on top of his knees like all the strength has been stolen from him. 

Finally, Yixing’s eyes widen. Without needing further instruction, he brushes past Junmyeon. He emerges from the bedroom ten seconds later with his clothes pulled on, the fabric sopping up all the water from his shower. After walking around Chanyeol, he shoots an apologetic look at Junmyeon, but he doesn’t even notice. All he can see is Chanyeol on the floor of his apartment, his shoulders shaking as his eyes well with tears. 

“Chanyeol—”

“Stop,” Chanyeol weakly says as Yixing shuts the door after himself. All of the bite from their phone call two weeks ago is out of his voice.

Chanyeol is sobbing. Gobs of tears trail down his cheeks, plopping from his chin to his shirt. And even now, he doesn’t bother hiding his face. He’s open. Always has been. Everything could have been so much more simple if Junmyeon had been even a fraction as open as him. But he isn’t, and all he can do is walk beside Chanyeol and crouch beside him. 

Junmyeon reaches out his hand but Chanyeol shrugs away.

“Please don’t touch me,” he groans, raking his fingers through his hair. 

“Okay,” Junmyeon quietly says. Crushing guilt keeps him cemented in his spot, his heart aching and aching and aching as Chanyeol cries, knowing there’s nothing he can say or do, as much as there’s a voice in the back of his mind screaming at him to make it better, to take everything back. He knows he shouldn’t, but out of desperation, he asks, “What can I do? What do you want?”

Chanyeol shakes his head, hiccuping. Chanyeol wishes he could get up. Wishes he could shove Junmyeon and yell something that will injure him to match the choking pain he feels now. Then he wishes he could leave. Run. Get as far away from Junmyeon as physically possible, and find a way to cut the string and forget every single thing that ever came with it. But he’s tired, so tired, and he can’t even manage to stand. 

“Why?” is all Chanyeol can manage, wiping at his leaking nose with his wrist. 

“I…” Junmyeon hesitates. He wants to give explanations and excuses, but that would mean he was trying to fix things. Maybe this way Chanyeol really _will_ despise him forever, not continue to chase the connection of their thread. His arms itch to wrap around Chanyeol, pull him close with comfort, but he can’t. “Lots of things. Lots of my own problems. And you didn’t answer any of my calls.”

Chanyeol’s eyes sweep over Junmyeon’s bare torso, catching all the hickeys and splotches of darkened skin. The searing feeling of betrayal is new. It burns in a different way than he’s used to, going against the logic that he was the one to “officially” end things with Junmyeon the night he got his phone back. He’s also angry in a way he’s never been: rage against that man who had touched his _Akaito_ in a way he’d never gotten to. Rage that—

“Was it re—ally that easy?” Chanyeol hiccups, squeezing his eyes shut. “So—close after we—we fight, that you end things, you go and fu—fuck someone else? Did I really not mean that much?”

No. It’s exactly the opposite. Chanyeol means everything, _is_ everything, and Junmyeon is damaged and fucked up and couldn’t get things right when they mattered the most. And he thought that everything was over, and that he might as well have someone else share the bed he made. 

But he says, “I told you from the beginning that this wouldn’t work out.”

Chanyeol glares up at him with enough force to squeeze the air from Junmyeon’s lungs.

“Don’t. You. Dare,” Chanyeol manages to say between sniffles. He tries to use the fresh wave of anger as motivation to stand, but his legs wobble and all he ends up doing is landing on his hip. He struggles to get up again. “I—I can’t. I’m going. I—”

“Let me drive you—”

“ _No_ ,” Chanyeol growls, and now he can’t look at Junmyeon anymore. Everything hurts and he’s never so desperately wished to disappear; not exist anymore; punch someone in the face. Chanyeol’s chest is twitching, lungs so strained from the crying that they’re spasming. He can’t take a full breath, and cringes away as he hears Junmyeon get up. But Junmyeon doesn’t reach out for him again. 

Seconds later, Chanyeol hears Junmyeon say, “Minseok? I need you to come to my apartment. Right now.”

Chanyeol is filled with shame at the thought of being tossed off, of having to face Minseok in the most miserable moment of his life. He gathers all of his concentration and pushes off the floor, stumbling his way out of Junmyeon’s apartment and ignoring his _Akaito_ ’s calls. 

But he only makes it a couple blocks away, tilting his head down to hide his tear-stained face, before out of the corner of his eye, he sees a familiar car screech up to the curb.

Chanyeol doesn’t protest as Minseok ushers him into the car. Fresh tears spurt from his eyes and he curls in on himself in the passenger seat. He gags on his own snot and it’s horrifically embarrassing but he doesn’t even care about that anymore because he’s in such utter pain that nothing else matters at this point. Chanyeol has always been messy and emotional, but he can’t remember crying like this before. 

Eventually he runs out of tears. He’s curled up in the seat of the car, dehydrated and spent and miserable. Minseok has been driving the whole time, however long that is, but the world blurs by and he doesn’t bother to try and figure out where he is. He doesn’t care. Doesn’t ask questions when Minseok pulls into a gas station and gets out of the car. When Minseok gets back in, he has a plastic bag in his lap. 

Chanyeol numbly watches as Minseok pulls out a water bottle and hands it over. Minseok’s face is blank, his actions methodical, as he pulls out wet wipes, cracks the container open. When he realizes that Chanyeol hasn’t done anything with the water, he opens it for him and presses the bottle against his lip. 

“Drink,” he gently says, and Chanyeol does. When he hands over the wipes, Chanyeol goes to put down the visor mirror then stops short. He cleans his face without looking at his reflection. Minseok puts the bag in Chanyeol’s lap then pulls out from the gas station. When Chanyeol peers inside, he sees a cold compress for eyes, and a small package of honey lozenges for his throat. 

“Where should I take you?” Minseok eventually asks as they’re back on the road. He peers over at Chanyeol. The poor kid. He hasn’t had time to process the whole situation. Worrying about a baby giant sobbing in his car has left little room for much thought about what the fuck Junmyeon had been thinking. “It can be anywhere. Or we can just drive. Whatever you want.”

Chanyeol takes a long time to answer, before rasping out, “Baekhyun’s.”

 

☓

 

Chanyeol always insists on being the little spoon when he manages to wrestle Baekhyun into cuddling with him. Baekhyun hates it; hates how Chanyeol is like a big lumpy dog and always manages to hit him in the crotch when he wiggles around. 

But today there’s no jostling, no puppy eyes as Chanyeol tries to drag Baekhyun down. Just Chanyeol’s shaky breaths as he flops to Baekhyun’s bed, curling onto his side. 

Baekhyun and Chanyeol are a different kind of tied. When one of them is in pain, the other feels it like a dull ache beneath their own bones. So with a tight throat, Baekhyun presses against Chanyeol’s back. He wraps his arm tightly across Chanyeol’s torso, presses his forehead against Chanyeol’s neck and squeezes his eyes shut, murderously plotting the best way to end an accountant’s life. 

 

☓

 

Junmyeon lays on his mattress that has been stripped bare. 

Things will go on. He knows this isn’t the end.

But it sure feels like it. 

 

☓

 

To Chanyeol, getting his heart broken feels a lot like drowning. He's heavy and tired. Currents of misery and regret constantly tug at him beneath the surface, making him feel like he's lost all sense of control. He misses Junmyeon. He hates what he did; his fault is glaring and painful.

But in the following two weeks, there are moments between the struggle when he catches a sharp breath of air. Laughing as Baekhyun tries to flick him with a rubber band and it snaps against his own hand. Walking across the stage of his high school’s auditorium, his stomach a swirling mess of anticipation and restlessness as he practices the graduation ceremony with his classmates. Dodging a piece of burnt toast his dad throws at him in the kitchen, leaving his mom standing open beside him to have it thwack against the side of her head. 

Chanyeol relishes those gasps of oxygen. He holds on to them so that when he's staring up at his ceiling at night and the waves of hurt overtake him once again, he at least has the breath to tide him over. 

At first he desperately tries pushing the feelings about Junmyeon away. Mentally chokes his mind with distractions and flat smiles and thoughts of _I'm fine, stop it_. But as the days go by, he stops resisting so hard. There are so many _good_ things happening in his life. His friends. His family. The things that are awaiting him in the future. Somehow he carries—makes room for—everything: the swirling of icy black water that sloshes through him when he least wants it to, and the warmth and light that counteracts it. 

After every smothering night, the morning sun glows through his window. Even when he's convinced himself, positive, that it won't. 

The days turn hot and his classes pass with a surreally slow pace. After his last official day of high school, Chanyeol and his friends spare themselves one last quiet moment to glance around the halls, before sprinting out whooping and making complete asses of themselves. Even Kyungsoo giggles and tells their high school to suck his dick once they exit the double doors. With the foresight of a best friend, Baekhyun puts Jongin in a headlock and smooshes his hand over Jongin’s mouth to prevent him from taking Kyungsoo up on that offer should the school refuse.

Fourteen days go by. Chanyeol keeps himself busy by romping around with his friends, working at Harpers, picking up bus boy hours at the restaurant his mom works at, and visiting Yura, who is still recovering from a rather nasty bout of final exams. 

He thinks about Junmyeon all the time. Carries him. Luckily, Danah has stopped pouting at her lessons about not being able to see Chanyeol’s “boyfriend,” but has started pouting about the fact that Chanyeol won’t be able to continue giving lessons once school starts for him in the fall. 

“We have a whole summer together,” Chanyeol tries to reason as Danah purses her lips and fiddles with the guitar pick necklace. “And I’ll come back to Harper’s to visit every chance I can.”

“But no one else can teach me like you do.” 

Chanyeol nudges her foot with his. “You kidding me? You’re a guitar deity, remember? You could have the worst teacher in the entire world, and you’d still kick butt. Besides, I know the guy who all of my students are going to, and he’s even a better guitar player than I am. If you can believe that.”

“But I bet he’s not as cute as you are,” Danah quietly grumbles, her cheeks turning dusty pink.

“No,” Chanyeol solemnly agrees, “I bet he’s not.”

Danah squishes her nose at him in reply, but when Chanyeol starts to laugh, she joins in.

The next day, Chanyeol wakes up to the alarm on his phone, the screen reading, “MOTHERFUCKING ADULT TIME BITCH.” He lets himself bury deeper into his pillow. Allows himself to feel that crushing sensation as he remembers and remembers and remembers how everything was _supposed_ to go up to this point. But then there’s a vicious knocking at his door before Baekhyun and Sehun burst in.

“Get your ass up. Your dad’s making us all breakfast and it smells _delicious,_ ” Baekhyun says, grabbing Chanyeol’s sheet and whipping it off his body. Then he yelps as he discovers Chanyeol is completely naked and scrambles to cover him up again. 

Soon after when Chanyeol, Baekhyun, Jongin, Sehun, and Kyungsoo are eating, Sehun stares at Chanyeol, thoughtfully lowers his fork, and says, “You have a very nice penis, Chanyeol.”

Chanyeol swallows as everyone else chokes and groans, slightly bowing his head. “Why thank you, kind sir.”

“I get it now,” Sehun offhandedly says to Jongin. 

“ _Stop ruining graduation day_.” Baekhyun viciously stabs into his scrambled eggs. 

And later that day, Chanyeol does it. He gets his diploma. After all the practice and the long, arduous waiting, the moment comes and goes in the span of three seconds. His graduating class is huge. It’s all he can do to keep up with the constant flow of students striding across stage as names are rattled off to no applause.

But backstage, crowded alphabetically beside some kids he’d only caught glimpses of during school, he has plenty enough time to think, reflect. He’s proud of himself, as much as he rolls his eyes every time his parents coo the same thing at him. Chanyeol was never the smartest, or the hardest working, and it’s easy to feel insignificant in such a large school, but he made it. So many moments led to this point, spanning years of his life. 

And Junmyeon took up only a small portion of that. Junmyeon felt like _everything_ but Chanyeol had made it this far without him. So as he squints into the harsh stage lighting, hoping he’s looking somewhere in the direction of his family, or maybe even the seat he scored for Minseok, for the first time he thinks that maybe he’ll be just as okay without Junmyeon in the future.

The moment doesn’t last long, but it’s good enough for now. 

 

☓

 

“How do you do it?” Junmyeon asks Minseok, flexing his pinky up and down. The two of them are at Minseok’s apartment. Junmyeon feels strange in the pristinely clean environment—a far cry from his cluttered place. The first five minutes in, he made the mistake of putting his beer down on the coffee table without a coaster and Minseok’s eye twitched in a way that looked painful.

“Do what?” Minseok asks. He’s still dressed in a white shirt, slacks, and tie from Chanyeol’s graduation. Junmyeon tries to ignore how jealous he is; it’s his own fault. Months ago, he’d actually let himself fantasize about being there himself, congratulating Chanyeol with flowers and pulling him into his arms. Now he’s here after a full day of applying to jobs. Junmyeon can make it to the end of his lease by living off of his savings, but knows that once August comes, he’s going to have to move to a cheaper home.

“How do you see the thread on your hand, and not think about your _Akaito_?”

Minseok looks at his own pinky. Junmyeon imagines the silver thread shining through the air. 

“I don’t,” Minseok replies, “I think about her all the time. It gets…easier. Maybe that’s not the word. You get used to it.”

“How’d he look today?” Junmyeon asks. He can’t even say the kid’s name.

“Really good. Grinning so hard his mouth took up his whole face, and he didn’t even look embarrassed when he tripped over the raised platform and crashed into the kid in front of him.”

Junmyeon smiles, but finds that it hurts. 

“You should have been there,” Minseok adds. 

“It’s done,” Junmyeon says, “Over. Going there would have made things harder. Worse. I can’t even look at the thread without feeling like I’m choking.”

“But whose fault is that?” Minseok says it so softly that it takes Junmyeon a moment to catch on. 

“What?”

Minseok sets his bottle down on a coaster with a clank. “Junmyeon, I love you. You know that. But I have to admit, I’m kind of pissed off at you.” It would be laughable had Minseok not looked so cool and serious. “ _You_ should have been the one in the auditorium. _You_ should have been the one greeting Chanyeol, watching as he Frisbee’d his graduation hat through the air. But it’s like you chose not to.”

“I didn’t choose—”

Minseok has reached the end of his tether. Up to this point, he’d been rather neutral between the paired _Akaito_ , giving comfort where it was needed and helping Junmyeon pick the scattered pieces of himself back up. Seeing Chanyeol walk across the stage today changed that. 

Both of them are so _stupid_.

“You want to know what I think when I look at my string?” Minseok asks, turning to face Junmyeon on the couch. “I think I miss her. Sometimes it’s soft and warm but sometimes it makes me feel like my heart is being cracked at by an ice pick.

“But that’s okay, because that reminds me about how lucky I was to have her. About how much we loved each other, and how we sometimes fought so hard it made us feel like giving up, but at the end of every day, we were together. Had each other.” Minseok gulps. Junmyeon has gone still.

“And you know what?” Minseok continues, his big eyes wide and serious. “If I became tied to my wife, and knew that she was going to be gone in seven years? Knew everything that would happen? I would do the whole god-damned thing again. _Nothing_ is worth more to me than that time we spent together. Because I had her. And I sure as hell didn’t deserve her but she loved me and gave me _everything_.”

Junmyeon’s breathing has gone shaky. 

Minseok says, “Chanyeol wanted to give you _everything_. You’ve always hated the whole _Akaito_ thing and you kept on pushing Chanyeol away with the idea that people fuck up, hurt each other past the point of being tied. Then you did everything you could to prove yourself right.”

Junmyeon presses his face into the palms of his hands. “Right.”

“It’s not like I’m placing all the blame one you. Chanyeol can be immature and bratty and you really tried your best to talk to him before he blew up on you. I get it. I get your uncertainty with your job, and the way meeting his parents scared you. But I can’t help and wonder what would have happened if both of you would have just _handled your shit_.”

“Yeah well,” Junmyeon says with a gravelly voice, “I guess we’ll never find out.”

Minseok studies him. He picks up his beer again, taking a pensive sip. 

“Maybe.”

 

☓

 

It’s a knee-jerk decision when Junmyeon applies to work at the small flower shop down the street from his apartment. Since Chanyeol’s graduation, he’d spent the last few weeks going through interviews at other accounting firms. They go well—possible employers always seeming impressed—but eventually they get to asking him for the reason that his references don’t have the best things to say about him. He’s had six interviews. Six chances to reword and reconstruct truthful versions of the reason he left. 

But no one has called back. 

He was walking home from another failed interview when he noticed the HELP WANTED sign in the window. Walked inside and brushed his fingers over soft petals, the smell of pollen and dirt taking him back to his mother’s gardens. Still wrapped in cozy memories, when the woman behind the counter asked how she could help him, he held up the faux-leather binder housing his resumé and said, “Who do I talk to about applying for the job?”

“I think you’re a little overqualified,” the owner says a couple days later during their interview in a corner of the store. They’re sitting on creaky stools, droplets from a nearby ceiling mister hitting their faces. She looks him up and down, taking in his designer button-up and slick black pants. 

“I’m looking for a change of pace,” Junmyeon smoothly answers. “And I have a lot of gardening know-how, along with a pretty big understanding of different kinds of flowers.”

The woman, willowy and tall with sun wrinkles around her lips and eyes, looks torn. “I’m afraid that we wouldn’t be able to give you quite the pay you were used to from your old job.”

“That isn’t a problem.” Junmyeon is already looking at cheaper apartments, organizing his things to figure out what he can sell and what he can’t live without. “The offer that you have on the application will be sufficient.”

The last week of June, Junmyeon starts his new job. 

Mid-July, he flies to his hometown for his friend’s wedding. Junmyeon brings Minseok as his plus-one, who artfully helps him dodge his friends questions about the _Akaito_ he showed them pictures of during their hike all those months ago. The two of them stay at his father’s beach cabin, greeting the ocean every day after they wake up. 

Neither of Junmyeon’s parents take the news of his new job too well. His mom frets over his living conditions, brandishing check after check at him that he gently declines. Mr. Kim, even when Junmyeon explains the whole situation, gets red in the face and asks Junmyeon why he just didn’t indulge Mr. Cress long enough to get a new job. Both of them seem to miss the point completely. Even though Junmyeon hadn’t expected anything else, he still finds himself disappointed and more ashamed than when he first arrived.

Their third night in, Junmyeon wakes with a start as his arm is grabbed onto and thrown to his side. Minseok grumpily sits up on their bed, the only one in the cabin, and mumbles, “I could take it the first two nights, but if you call me ‘Chanyeol’ and try cuddling me in your sleep again, I’m making you sleep on the couch.”

Junmyeon is slightly mortified. He’d been constantly dreaming about Chanyeol, but thought that would be the extent of it. “I—”

“And Jesus, you lack any kind of artfulness when it comes to groping.” Minseok flops back down to the bed, a hint of teasing showing through his agitation. “You _animal_.”

Junmyeon huffs, slowly feeling better. “I’m sorry that you’re such a porcelain little princess.”

“I’m just saying, if you’re going to feel me up in your sleep, a little tenderness goes a long way.”

“Noted.”

 

☓

 

Chanyeol is Googling pictures of the beach in Junmyeon’s hometown when Baekhyun snatches his phone away. 

“Stop,” his best friend grumbles, sitting beside him on the curb. It’s two in the morning in the depths of their district, the smell of smoke and waste mixing in with the scent of food from the surrounding restaurants. Catching a breath outside, the two of them are sweaty and smeared with grease. From their fingers to their elbows, their skin is bright pink from working with steaming hot water after washing dishes all night at the restaurant. It’s terrible, barely sufferable work, but after they got a look at how much their textbooks for their first semester at State were going to cost, they both grabbed up as many hours in the kitchen as they could. 

“Minseok’s there with him now,” Chanyeol replies, trying not to sound as sad as he feels. Baekhyun studies him, his hair sticking out from his hairnet in ridiculous ways, then types something new into the phone. When Chanyeol gets his phone back, it’s on a porn site. 

“Thanks,” Chanyeol flatly says. “You’re so sweet.”

“Look at how many other dicks there are in the world,” Baekhyun gestures to the crude advertisements. “Stop thinking about that particular one.” 

_He doesn’t get it_ , Chanyeol thinks. Keeping in touch with Minseok was one of the best and worst decisions he’s made this summer. He likes hanging out with the older man. Minseok takes him to museums and treats him to food; is always nice and thoughtful in a way he can’t exactly get from his friends. But Minseok is also still best friends with Junmyeon, and it’s hard to see Minseok or talk to him without the conversation drifting that way. 

“It was about more than just his dick, you asshole,” Chanyeol says in lieu of explaining. 

“I can’t believe you haven’t decided on a major yet. You’re obviously geared toward something dealing with poetry.” Baekhyun waits for Chanyeol to add another jab, play their usual game, but sighs when he doesn’t. “Can you just go one day without looking like a kicked puppy? This is our last summer before college. Every time I think you’re enjoying it, you get that look and it makes me…it makes me one step closer to becoming homicidal, okay? I don’t want that fucker to ruin this for you.”

“He’s not,” Chanyeol quickly says, “I just—I’m trying, Baek. I don’t want you to worry about me but it’s like this shit just comes spilling out and I don’t know how to control it. I’m sorry.”

Baekhyun leans his head on Chanyeol’s bare shoulder, even though both of them smell like crap and the sticky slide of their skin is disgusting. “Don’t apologize. I know you’re, uh, hurting. I feel like a terrible best friend because I can’t do anything to make it better.”

“You kidding me?” Chanyeol softly smiles again, making Baekhyun look up. “By putting porn on my phone, you have cured me by one one-hundredth.”

“Only ninety-nine more to go?”

“I think _you_ should switch your major from human services to math, because that was some fucking beautiful calculation you just did there.”

 

☓

 

The last week of August, moving-in day comes in a flurry of ridiculous traffic, overzealous upperclassmen “Happy Helpers,” and crowds of strangers crammed into their new dormitory, awkwardly saying hello. By the time both sets of their parents have gone home, Chanyeol and Baekhyun stand in the middle of their box-sized room and stare at each other, dazed. 

“So I guess this is happening,” Baekhyun says. Chanyeol dumbly nods. It’s seven o’clock and people are still flowing through the halls of their dorm. He didn’t think it was possible to switch from feeling so grown up after graduating to feeling like a child as he and Baekhyun unsurely begin unpacking their things. 

“Hey dipshits.”

Chanyeol and Baekhyun look up from their boxes, seeing Sehun standing in the doorway. Sehun ended up in the dorm next door, and judging by the little group of people standing beside him, he’s already built up quite the following. It’s only the three of them that are going to State; Kyungsoo ended up going to his parents’ Alma Mater which is a private school downtown, and Jongin is going to attend the community college just down the road from their old high school. 

“What. Do you want.” Baekhyun tries glaring at him but he’s too amused at the kids looking at Sehun like he’s a god. Sehun has that affect on people.

“Jongin and Kyungsoo are going to meet us for dinner.”

“We have to unpack,” Chanyeol gestures to their mess of stuff. 

Sehun uncaringly flicks his hands. “You nerds. Now hurry up, I’m hungry. If we make it on time, I won’t make you pay for my meal.”

He turns on his heel and whisks off, his disciples following close behind. 

Baekhyun and Chanyeol look at each other. Chanyeol had thought that college was the sign that everything is going to change; nothing will be as he remembers it. But this feeling of wanting to throw something at Sehun’s face or mess up his styled hair is annoyingly familiar. 

“Going?” he asks Baekhyun.

“Going.”

 

☓

 

Junmyeon likes his new small, clean apartment. He likes that it’s within walking distance of his job at the flower shop; likes the soft-spoken people he works with; likes coming home smelling fresh with visions of all the colorful flowers still swirling in the back of his mind. 

But he’s starting to feel restless. It’s the beginning of October and he finds himself missing numbers. He digs through some of the old files on his laptop, reading through spreadsheets like it’s some sort of dirty secret. 

Junmyeon has been keeping in touch with the representative, holding on to the little encouragements she gives that there is still an offer for him when they finally move forward with their project. He misses being pushed in the way his old job used to. Not pushed _around_ by his boss, but challenged in his talent for sorting numbers. 

He’s good at what he does at the shop. Customers like his sweeping gardening knowledge and his soft smiles. His apartment may be messy but he’s meticulous in his work, the owner always pleased when she takes over for the next shift. It’s also given him more to talk about with his mom, who advises him on caring for his own mini-garden on the balcony of his apartment.

Some days, when business is slow at the shop and he’s carefully cleaning through the front displays, he wonders what Chanyeol would think of the flowers. He’s such a big, clunky kid, but would probably be over-delicate with how he handled them. Junmyeon imagines Chanyeol sitting on the bench by the register, kicking his shoes to the dirty pavement and highlighting through his textbook while Junmyeon works. The snapback, his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration. It’s all too easy to picture. 

Junmyeon wonders how his classes are going. How he’s adapting to living in a dorm. If he’s made new friends. Minseok reported that he hasn’t decided his major, and Junmyeon is still green with envy that Minseok sees him in person. Every time Minseok offers to bring him along, Junmyeon easily dodges it. 

He sighs, leaning on the counter and looking at the bench. 

 

☓

 

Chanyeol’s birthday, Sehun throws him a party at his friend’s house on campus. 

“Drinking buddy?” Chanyeol seriously asks Baekhyun, pointing at him before they leave the dorm. 

“Why do you always do that before we go out?” Baekhyun whines, taking Chanyeol’s hat off and putting it on his own head before checking it in the mirror. “It’s so stupid.”

“Because it’s important to always have someone who has your back.”

Baekhyun continues grumbling about it but Chanyeol is too busy trying to pick out a new hat. At first, everyone in their dorm had been positive that he and Baekhyun were dating, the way they bickered and shared clothing and Chanyeol may or may not have planted a big, wet kiss on Baekhyun’s mouth in front of some girls he’d been staring at just to embarrass him. 

The rumors only started to die down when Baekhyun was caught by their floor’s resident in the lounge area doing unsavory things with the gorgeous plump girl from down the hall.

Chanyeol and Baekhyun leave their room together. It’s now cluttered with textbooks and papers and a mechanical pencil every square foot. As much as Yura warned him, Chanyeol was still surprised when it turned out college is a lot less partying and having the time of your life and a lot more pulling your hair out during and between classes. 

With his busy schedule, Chanyeol has only gotten to see Harper’s twice, making sure to stop by on days Danah was there. She gifted him with packets of instant coffee and a sparkly ruler/pencil/scissors/rainbow unicorn eraser set. One of them her dad recommended, the other was her own thought of what Chanyeol would need. Chanyeol uses the glittery pencil in every class, the white magical pony on top waving around whenever he writes.

As Baekhyun talks nonstop as they walk across campus, both huddled into their jackets, Chanyeol thinks about a warm car with leather seats. Junmyeon stretching to reach the present in the backseat and how those two shots Chanyeol took prior felt like he’d taken ten. Pink lemonade and cheap gas station lights and Radiohead. 

He misses Junmyeon so bad it hurts. It creeps up in the worst moments. Minseok said they weren’t working together anymore. When Chanyeol instantly asked why, Minseok told him, “ _Call and ask yourself_.”

Three drinks in, the mix of all four of his best friends from high school and his new friends from State cheering around him, he gives calling Junmyeon more serious thought than he ever has. Just one call. Maybe one text. They ended things terribly but it’d be nice to share a happy memory, right?

The old house is cramped with people, music shuddering through the walls. There’s a crowd in the kitchen watching a high-speed game of Boom Cup, while wails can be heard from the group watching football in the living room. Chanyeol barely has the attention span for either of them, and it’s already hard to focus when people keep coming up to kiss him. It’s all because of the shirt Jongin made him put on that says “KISS ME, IT’S MY FUCKING BIRTHDAY” in black sharpie. 

It’s mostly pecks on the cheek or some messy slides across his lips, but Chanyeol only minds when Jongin comes up for seconds then thirds. He’s sweating and wobbly but nothing feels better than to forget about his burgeoning stack of homework with all of the attention.

Later in the night, when he’s on the porch of the second story to catch a breather, a new friend from his math class joins him, someone trailing behind her. Chanyeol passed the threshold from drunkenness a long time ago and gives her a crushing hug, to which she spots his shirt and gives him a reaching kiss on the jaw. 

“This is my friend, Kris,” she says as she stumbles away, pointing to the tall guy standing behind her. Chanyeol blinks at him. He’s wearing those trendy Boy London clothes that Chanyeol calls douchey but secretly wishes he could afford. His brain clumsily connects thoughts.

“Hey, Kris,” he says. “I think your hat is cool. Are you mad about something? You look mad.”

Chanyeol’s friend laughs as Kris raises a godly eyebrow and says, “Uh, hi, thanks, and no?”

Either Kris hasn’t had enough to drink or he’s a very boring drunk. Chanyeol guesses it doesn’t really matter when the guy has a very nice face.

“Well what are you waiting for?” the friend says, clutching at Kris’ side and tugging him toward Chanyeol. “Kiss him! It’s his fucking birthday.”

“Alice, I don’t think he wants—”

But Kris is ridiculously handsome and he makes Chanyeol’s stomach do some strange swoopy thing and out of everyone who has kissed him tonight, he thinks he’d like to kiss Kris the most. So Chanyeol steps closer and shrugs. “It _is_ my fucking birthday, reference—” he looks down as he points at the scrawl across his chest, “—the shirt for the following instructions.”

When he looks up Kris is doing something that could be considered smiling, and Chanyeol almost falls forward with his eagerness. Their lips unevenly press. Kris flinches in surprise, but doesn’t push him away. In fact, he places one of his huge, warm hands on Chanyeol’s hip. It feels fucking _nice,_ but then again with the alcohol in his system just about everything feels good right about now. Chanyeol goes to kiss him deeper but giggles come out of his mouth instead of his tongue. This is all ridiculous. 

Luckily Kris looks amused that Chanyeol just sputtered in his face. 

Chanyeol doesn’t call Junmyeon that night, but when he wakes up the next morning, hungover but successfully big-spooned by Baekhyun, there’s a new contact in his phone that says “kissr.”

Kris. 

 

☓

 

There’s a rock on Jongdae’s ring finger that Junmyeon is pretty sure is a blood diamond from Africa and it took five impoverished children to carry out of the mine. 

“He went a little overboard,” Jongdae says, catching his eye. 

“And you fucking love it,” Junmyeon replies. 

Jongdae gives a smarmy smile as he picks up his coffee mug and takes a sip. “Perhaps.”

“It’s very nice,” Minseok offers. The three of them are in a café, hiding from the biting January air. 

“Yeah, not exactly something that someone working in a flower shop would be able to afford,” Jongdae airily says. Junmyeon glares at him. The two of them have been slowly easing into some kind of relationship, still pricking each other every now and then in parts they’d forgotten were sensitive. It’s much easier to forget about all the different ways he and Jongdae slept together when he also wants to push the man’s face into his latte. 

“You didn’t tell him yet?” Minseok asks Junmyeon through a mouthful of mocha bread. 

“What, tell me what?”

“Well, I didn’t want to outright _brag_ about it,” Junmyeon says, pointedly looking at the diamond meteor Jongdae is carting around, “but that group that works for a distributor of medical supplies? They’re in the beginning stages of breaking away from their company and have already hired me for their first quarter. It’s all they can guarantee right now, but I’m going to help them get their numbers up and running.”

“Congrats,” Jongdae says, and it’s actually sincere. “Thank god, because working in a flower shop is—”

“You work at a library. All you do is file your nails and intimidate children into turning in their books on time,” Junmyeon shoots back. “And I’m keeping my job. I’ll be doing all of my work for the distributor at home on my own time, so I can still take shifts at the shop.” Junmyeon leans back in his chair, warming his back with the fireplace by their table. “I like it there. The people are great and I…enjoy myself.”

“You’ve turned into a goddamn softie,” Jongdae murmurs, but he’s smiling. 

“ _You’re_ the softie. You’re about to turn into someone’s husband.”

“Who wants to turn _me_ into the softie and buy me more mocha bread?” Minseok interrupts, already done with their banter. 

 

☓

 

Kris is surprisingly sweet. Almost _too_ sweet. He never lets Chanyeol walk through a set of doors without opening them for him, and every time they go out, he insists on paying. Chanyeol’s wallet is grateful, but it still pricks his nerves sometimes that Kris never lets him buy. There’s some kind of imbalance to it all. 

“You’re complaining about nothing,” Baekhyun says mid-January. They’d been hanging out in groups since Chanyeol’s birthday, Kris seemingly too shy to do anything but hold Chanyeol’s hand up to that point. “He’s really nice to you, _wah_. Poor Chanyeol.”

When Kris and Chanyeol walk around campus, people stare. They catch eyes because of their height, but their gazes always linger on Kris. He looks intimidating. Like some moody model who’s already bored by you before you get a chance to say anything. 

But Chanyeol gets to see Kris smile; the way he breaks into a gummy grin with he fumbles with putting his sunglasses on, or how his face turns pink when he tries to impress Chanyeol at the bowling alley only to roll gutter after gutter ball. Not like Chanyeol is much better, but he doesn’t really care because Kris claps his hands like a seal and laughs every time. 

“But he won’t even touch me!” Chanyeol slams his pen against his textbook, making everyone in the library look up and shush him. 

Baekhyun thwacks Chanyeol’s knuckles with his own pen and hisses, “You idiot. He’s obviously shy, why haven’t _you_ done anything about it? Make the first move. Asshole.”

Chanyeol hadn’t thought about it that way. It quiets him for the rest of the evening.

It’s when Kris kisses Chanyeol first on the bed in his dorm room, the moment his tongue timidly presses past his lips, that Chanyeol gets his answer. He panics, pulling away to have Kris instantly start apologizing. Chanyeol waves his apologies away, gritting his teeth and fighting the urge he has to run in the opposite direction. 

“I’m tied, Kris,” Chanyeol says, somehow breathless. “I’m tied, and it didn’t work out, and I have no fucking clue why I haven’t told you yet because there’s obviously something going on between us and I should have said something sooner.”

He can see Kris physically curl in on himself, all of his muscles tense. Kris’ eyes flick back and forth between Chanyeol’s hands. “You have an _Akaito_?”

All Chanyeol can do is nod, before murmuring, “I do. And he broke my heart, and we haven’t talked for like, more than half a year.”

“What happened?”  
Chanyeol’s heart twists for the first time in a while. “It wasn’t meant to be, I guess.”

“But you’re _Akaito_.” Kris rises off the bed; is slowly backing away from him, and Chanyeol can’t decide if that feeling in his spine is relief or regret. “That doesn’t make sense.”

Chanyeol shrugs. “It’s not that simple.” The words burn his throat.

“Okay, well, I’m going to—I’m glad you told me, but,” Kris points behind himself, fumbling over a couple words. “I should go. I’m uh, I have to…I’ll call you, okay?”

“Okay,” Chanyeol quietly says. He watches as Kris gathers his coat and shoes and walks out the door without putting any of them on. A beat passes and he stands, ready to go chase him down, maybe offer more of an explanation, but he sinks back to his bed and lays over the warmth that Kris left against his blankets.

This is much more confusing than he thought it would be.

 

☓

 

"I don't care," Kris blurts just a week later. Chanyeol’s head had been bowed as he turned the corner to get to his dorm room, shuffling through his backpack for his keys. He hadn't expected look up and see Kris sitting against the wall by his door. The other boy’s face is red as he scrambles to stand.

"You don’t—okay.” Chanyeol nods, eager to agree. He has no clue what Kris is talking about but he’s just happy to see him. Kris fidgets with his Chrome Hearts backpack, his silver cross earrings dangling with the movement. Every carefully-placed piece of his image is polished and chic, but his shyness punches past the layers of designer brands. Chanyeol wants to reach out to Kris, smooth his palms over the junior’s cheeks and get him to stop fidgeting in place. 

"I'm sorry that I ran out after we kissed," Kris mumbles, "It's just that I really started to, um, like you, and the last thing I was expecting was that you're tied."

Something wiggles in Chanyeol's stomach. Kris really likes him. Kris with his smoldering eyes and gigantic hands and wide shoulders. As much as he knows those things only make up part of his dorky composition, it still doesn't feel right that someone like _Kris_ would want to be with him. Chanyeol is sexy, but Kris is _Bonus Level_ Sexy.

"Don't apologize, I should have told you sooner—”

His words seem to barely register with Kris as he embarrassedly plunders ahead.

"At first I was really upset because I felt like I was getting between the two of you, going against the universe or something. Being tied is—” He falters. “—even if you said you haven't talked in a while. But I really like you a lot. And I—I kind of want to be with you because I think I could like you even more? I know it's selfish and stupid, but—”

“Kris—” Chanyeol tries to catch Kris' gaze even as the other adamantly avoids the eye contact.

“—if you say it's over between the two of you, I trust you, because you're probably one of the nicest people that I know, and—”

“Kris—” Chanyeol’s lips twist into a goofy smile. 

“—maybe I'm just delusional but I think it could work out, that is, if you want it to. So I don't care. If you're tied. Because I'd really like to take you out. Again. Sometime. Soon."

Chanyeol thinks of Junmyeon; the old burn feeling fresh again. But he looks at Kris, takes in the pretty blush now running down his neck, and there’s some sort of aloe effect. It doesn't eclipse any of the tangled feelings he has for Junmyeon, but it soothes the sting. 

Kris is great. Handsome, funny, and irrevocably kind. He likes Chanyeol in an undiluted way that makes the answer seem all too easy.

"I'd like that,” Chanyeol says. Kris flinches like he's surprised, finally looking up with wide eyes. Chanyeol laughs at him, loud and boisterous in a way that echoes up and down the hall. Someone slams their door shut a couple rooms away.

“Yeah?”

“Just as long as you're okay with it. I didn't really expect for any of this to happen after the mess with my—the guy at the end of the string. I'm kind of lost but as long as you're patient with me, I think this could work out, too."

Chanyeol doesn't know the exact density of truth to his words, but they feel good to say. Maybe he _will_ fall for Kris. Maybe he'll be swept away and all those new stories he's learned about finding someone outside of your _Akaito_ will finally make sense. 

Maybe not. But right now it doesn't matter. The air turns awkward between them, like they're elementary school students stumbling over confessions during recess. It's endearing, but also kind of annoying, until Kris bites his lip in one last attempt to regain his facial expression and Chanyeol wonders how it'd feel between his own teeth. Kris seems to be on the same wavelength.

“And.” Kris scuffs the toe of his shoe against the old carpeting. "I'd really like to kiss you, again."

" _Shit_ you're adorable," comes a voice from a couple inches below. Baekhyun is standing behind them, his arms full of books from the library, looking between the two giants being disgustingly mushy in the hall. "But you guys are going to have to fuck somewhere else tonight because I'm turning our room into an emergency study zone. Open the door for me, Chanyeol.”

Chanyeol isn’t fazed, but Kris makes a strangled noise. Up until this point Baekhyun had been piously sweet around Kris. It appears that his latest twenty-page research paper has dissolved any care he gave about keeping the guise up. 

“We’re not—no because I was just—”

“Here,” Chanyeol says past Kris’ struggle. He opens the door for Baekhyun, then promptly slams it against his ass before he can fully pass. The last thing he sees before he shuts the door all the way is Baekhyun’s books flying from his arms. 

Colorful commentary erupts from the dorm room. Another door is slammed shut down the hall. Chanyeol laughs, very pleased with himself, but stops short when he sees that Kris’ shoulders are rigid. This time, just as Kris tries making his retreat again, Chanyeol grabs his face and presses their lips together. 

 

_February._

 

Wallace Industries is officially open for business. Within the first week, Junmyeon’s apartment is so filled with papers and catalogues and folders that he can barely make it from room to room without tripping over something. His new workload is literally closing in on him—there from when he opens his eyes in the morning to when they close at night—but past the stress and exhaustion, something about it feels _good_. 

He finds his stride again, stretching his brain as his fingers whir through the new documents like he hasn’t had all this time off. 

Minseok knocks on the door to his apartment one night, bearing beer and chicken to celebrate even though he’s neck-deep in work from Lachowski, Miller  & Co. Junmyeon steps aside to let him in. Minseok blanches. Steps back. Whispers a horrified, “ _No_ ,” then speeds down the hall.

That Saturday, Minseok drags Junmyeon to the nearest Office Depot and buys him a fortune’s worth of filing cabinets and shelves. 

 

_March_.

 

The wind is sharp, carrying flurries of snow that feel like pinpricks as they hit the parts of Chanyeol’s face that aren’t covered by his scarf. As cold as it is, a simmering warmth fills him as Kris leans forward and kisses him. Slow and deliberate.

Kris has stopped being overly careful every time he touches Chanyeol, even though it took weeks of Chanyeol constantly having to murmur, “It’s okay, you’re okay, I’m okay,” and using his body to try and encourage Kris past his hesitation. It’s not that Kris isn’t experienced—he’s far from virginal, in fact—but he takes his time with everything he does, especially since Chanyeol admitted he hadn’t slept with anyone before.

It drives Chanyeol crazy. Kris is the king of self-restraint. He likes Chanyeol to lead; set the pace; test the boundaries, but he’s always the first one to pull away. 

Now, beneath the streetlamp in front of Kris’ house, Kris isn’t pulling away. He makes a soft noise in the back of his throat as Chanyeol wraps his arms tighter around him, wishing there wasn’t all these layers of coats and sweaters between them. Chanyeol intensifies the kiss to soak in as much of the moment as he can, knowing his time is running out for the date and Kris is probably close to telling him goodnight.

Then Kris is slightly leaning away, clinging to Chanyeol, and Chanyeol hears him whisper, “My roommates are gone for the night. Come up?”

Kris nervously blinks, searching Chanyeol’s face as if _he_ were the inexperienced one.

Chanyeol gulps, his own nerves stirring and fizzling in the depths of his stomach. All this time he’d been trying to maneuver his way into Kris’ pants and now that he’s finally gotten the offer, he almost doesn’t know what to do. 

“Yeah.”

Almost.

 

_April_.

 

Junmyeon finds Chanyeol's hoodie. It’s the one from their walk in the park more than a year ago, when Junmyeon was shivering against the cold and Chanyeol eagerly handed it over. He presses it against his face without thinking, trying to catch a hint of his _Akaito_ ’s scent, then realizes what he’s doing and drops it to his lap. 

Not like it matters. It doesn’t smell the same anymore: only fabric softener and dust.

He places it on his table, means to take it to Goodwill, but he passes it every morning and thinks, _tomorrow._

_Tomorrow_. _Tomorrow_. _Tomorrow_. 

Weeks pass until Junmyeon gently tucks it into a corner of his closet. 

 

_May_.

 

Final exams come in a hurricane. It’s his second time around but Chanyeol is always frantically reaching for something. His boyfriend. Another cup of coffee. His pillow.

Nothing seems to ground him. 

Fucking into Kris during stolen time only placates him until the post-orgasm buzz wears off. Caffeine sings through his bloodstream enough to curb the exhaustion, but it leaves him shaky and anxious. He only allows himself a couple hours pressed against his pillow at a time, his and Baekhyun’s alarms always ringing way too early. 

Chanyeol can’t tell if everything feels off-balance because of the last-minute scramble to pass all of his classes, or if there’s something that’s actually wrong. A piece that isn’t fitting right. 

Luckily he doesn’t have the time to overthink it. 

 

_June_.

 

Junmyeon takes Minseok to his hometown for a week. It’s strange to think that there was once a time he played with the fantasy of bringing Chanyeol, instead. 

This time, he doesn't wrap himself around Minseok, mumbling in his sleep for the person at the other side of his string. The thread may lead him to his _Akaito_ , but the connection seems long lost at this point. 

Junmyeon golfs with his dad and gardens with his mom. He takes Minseok to the bluffs and pretends not to notice as Minseok takes pictures and sends them to Chanyeol. 

 

_July_.

 

Chanyeol spends his hours either working at Harper's or running bus boy shifts at the restaurant. After graduating, Yura is temporarily living at their house again, and somehow they manage to fall into the same bickering routine of their childhood. The two of them end up squished in The Trouble Chair together, just like old times. They throw elbows and whine. Mr. Park tries to stifle his laughter as his wife brandishes the newspaper at them. 

 

_August_.

 

Junmyeon finishes calculating, organizing, and presenting the Half Years of Wallace Industries to his new CEO just two days before Jongdae's wedding. The rates are going low; the business has had a slow pickup, but there's a certain edge of promise on the horizon that makes Junmyeon work harder. He's not used to being his own boss, or working with such a small group of associates when it comes to accounting. 

But he’s growing to like it. 

Minseok comes over to his apartment once or twice a week to help him sort the files. He berates Junmyeon every time, hitting him with a manila folder as he lectures about the direct correlation between organization and productivity. Junmyeon jokes about paying Minseok for his help, but his chuckling quiets when he thinks that may not be such a bad idea.

 

_September_.

 

The student apartment is shitty but Chanyeol adores it. Baekhyun complains about the mold in the shower and Sehun insists that there's a strange smell coming from the vents, but Chanyeol prances around and worships every piece of the grubby place. Because it's _his._ Well, one-third his, and they're renting, but it feels like the most exciting foray into adulthood that he's made yet. 

With his crowded schedule of class, studying, and working at the coffee stall in one of the cafeterias on campus, Chanyeol pushes past the exhaustion. Because the pay-off of being able to pay his own bills, buy his own things, and make it through every day no matter how difficult school is makes him feel strong and independent in a way he's never felt before. 

 

_October._

 

_The tenth._

 

_3:46 a.m._

 

Chanyeol wakes to a text.

 

_8 a.m._

 

Junmyeon gets a call. He grabs his jacket and runs out the door, unable to coordinate his movements to pull his shoes on all the way until he’s reached the sidewalk outside the lobby. 

He reaches Minseok’s apartment in fifteen minutes, barely knocking twice before Minseok wrenches the door open. Minseok is a deathly pale. The thin skin beneath his eyes is garishly purple, making it look more like he got punched in the face instead of lost sleep. It serves Junmyeon with unpleasant memories of when Minseok used to look like that _all_ the time. 

“You okay?” Junmyeon manages to ask between deep breaths. It’s a stupid question, of course he’s not okay, but Minseok nods anyway. 

“I’m fine.” His hands are as shaky as his voice as he gestures for Junmyeon to enter his apartment. Minseok flinches as his own movement makes him catch something out of the corner of his eye. 

Junmyeon steps out of his shoes, focusing on his friend as they walk through the short entrance hall. “Have you eaten? I should have stopped and grabbed something for you but I was in such a rush that—”

“Don’t worry about it. We went to a diner a couple hours ago,” Minseok replies as they walk into his living room. 

“That doesn’t mean that you’ve eaten,” Junmyeon points out, but just as his brain processes that Minseok said “we,” he hears a familiar voice say, “I forced some scrambled eggs down his throat.”

Junmyeon feels as if the ground has dropped away, leaving him temporarily suspended in the air. He looks to Minseok for confirmation, not daring to turn. His stomach clenches with petrified anticipation of the impending plummet. Minseok gives a guilty nod. 

And then Junmyeon is falling, falling, falling as his eyes follow the shimmering red thread across the room, straight up to Chanyeol. Their eyes connect, the impact hits, and all of the breath is pounded from Junmyeon’s lungs. 

After carrying around the memory of Chanyeol for so long, it’s almost laughable how pitiful those old images seem in comparison to the person in front of him. It’s not that Chanyeol looks any different—same Yoda ears, same wide eyes, same goddamn snapback—but Junmyeon’s heart is thudding, _banging_ against his ribs because is _Akaito_ is beautiful in a way he can’t properly remember.

“Hi,” Chanyeol says, lips twitching as he tries to give a relaxed smile. The effort makes him look crazed. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, more aware of the string than he’s been in a very long time. Behind the fabric, his pinky twitches with the thread as it excitedly jerks in Junmyeon’s direction.

Junmyeon makes a noise that could be taken either as a greeting or a constipated whine. He can’t seem to move.

Bouncing on the balls of his feet, Minseok looks back and forth between the two of them then frantically mutters, “Coffee, he might need coffee, first,” before zipping out of the living room. There’s still some left over from earlier that morning. 

“Hey, grab me one, too?” Chanyeol shakily calls after him. He has the desire to Koala-clutch onto Minseok and hide behind him, not wanting to face Junmyeon and the overwhelming emotions that come with it. He had some time to mentally prepare himself for his _Akaito_ ’s arrival, but all of his aspirations of coming off nonchalant and laid-back liquefy as he can’t make himself shut up. “I drink a lot of coffee now. I’m working at a coffee stand in one of the cafeterias at State. Been inhaling that stuff because I get a discount.”

Junmyeon nods. The beat of silence that follows is almost painful. 

“Lots and lots of coffee. Coffee on coffee. Yeah, I shit like five times a day now.” Chanyeol pauses as Junmyeon’s eyes widen. “Is that a bad thing?”

“I mean it’s…” Junmyeon’s voice has no air to it, “it’s not a _good_ thing.”

“How many times a day would you say would be healthy?”

“Uh. I’m not exactly the guru of excrement—”

Minseok reenters the living room that exact moment, shaking his head. “You guys have been together for less than two minutes and you’re having a conversation about shit. Guess I should just be happy you’re talking.”

“Yeah,” Chanyeol mumbles. All the nights he’s spent wondering what it would be like to see Junmyeon again, plotting of how hot and adult and look-what-you’re-missing-out-on-I’m-awesome he’d be, this wasn’t it. 

Junmyeon accepts the mug as it’s handed over to him, then gently stops Minseok from handing Chanyeol the other mug. “Maybe he should pass up on this one.”

After Minseok has retrieved Chanyeol a cup of apple juice instead, the three of them settle in Minseok’s living room. 

“I’m sorry that I did this to you guys,” Minseok murmurs, pressing his hands beneath his thighs where he’s sitting on the couch, “I know it’s egocentric of me to ask for so much, but I really, really need you, both of you, here.”

Like no time has passed at all, Chanyeol looks to Junmyeon by instinct, the older man muttering, “It means ‘selfish,’” before turning to Minseok to say, “Don’t say that.”

“You have to admit, it _is_ kind of pathetic that I’m making you guys suffer just so I can feel a little better.”

“I’m not suffering—” Chanyeol quickly says. “I’m fine. I’m great.”

“Yeah, didn’t you hear? He’s shitting like a well-oiled machine. Nothing can bring him down these days,” Junmyeon adds, drawing a reluctant laugh from Minseok. Junmyeon nudges his friend, softly adding, “Don’t worry about it. This isn’t about us. It’s about you.”

It may be hard to push thoughts of the last time he’d seen Chanyeol to the back of his mind, but the way Minseok looks seconds away from curling up into a fetal position keeps Junmyeon focused on the real matter at hand. They turn on the TV and talk, skirting around the actual reason they’re all huddling close on a Tuesday morning to try and divert Minseok’s attention. Junmyeon eventually clonks around the kitchen and makes some toast—only slightly burning it. Minseok is so distracted with an animated story Chanyeol is telling him that he runs on automatic as he accepts the plate and takes a few bites of the toast.

They build a bubble of pretend and make believe, the three of them, ignoring the uneasy stirring in the depths of their guts in lieu of superficial interactions. Junmyeon and Chanyeol can’t seem to meet each other’s eyes for more than two seconds at a time. Too much tension builds between them if they directly talk to each other; Minseok is dragged into every conversation. Minseok himself just sinks further and further into the couch, as if he wants to disappear right into it. 

Around nine, he blinks, some clarity swirling in his eyes as he asks, “Hey Chanyeol, what time does your first class of the day start?”

Chanyeol checks the time on his phone. “Uh. About five minutes ago.”

Minseok only has the energy to jerk his head up from where it was resting on the back of the couch. “ _What_? Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I figured this was more important.” Chanyeol shrugs. 

“Isn’t today your anatomy lecture?” Minseok squints his eyes.

“Well, yeah, but—”

“That’s your worst class! You’ve only been back at school for a month and you’re already falling behind. Get up! Go!” Minseok flails his foot in Chanyeol’s direction. Junmyeon feels a singe of jealousy at their familiarity. 

“But you—”

“That doesn’t matter. I don’t want you here anymore. I want you in your class.” 

Junmyeon nods along, refraining from adding on. It’s not his business. That is, until Minseok whirls on him and says, “If you give him a ride, he won’t have to wait for the bus and it’ll only take about ten minutes to get him there.”

“I—what about—” Junmyeon stutters through some word-sounding noises. That sounds like a terrible idea.

“Please. I’d take him myself, but I’m not…” And God damn it all, Minseok’s eyes blink and shine with a fear that makes Junmyeon want to wait on him hand and foot. “I can’t. I just need some more time and then I’ll be right back up and—”

“Okay okay, I’ll take him,” Junmyeon says, shooting to his feet before he can overthink it. He doesn’t look at Chanyeol as he starts walking to the door. “Come on, kid.”

“Guys, seriously, it’s just one—” Chanyeol starts, then stops short when Junmyeon turns around with a raised eyebrow.

“Do it. For Minseok.”

Chanyeol gulps, his wide eyes making it look like he’s moments away from rambling about his bathroom schedule again. “Right.”

A couple minutes later, the two of them are driving through the sludgy morning traffic. The air is thick between them. Junmyeon is intensely aware of every move Chanyeol makes, watching him out of the corner of his eye more than he’s paying attention to the road signs.

Chanyeol can’t help but squirm in his seat. Ever since Junmyeon walked into Minseok’s apartment, Chanyeol has had this _need_ to touch him. He’s spent so much time building on his recollections of Junmyeon that the pretty, petite man beside him doesn’t feel real. Just one poke would suffice, one little press of his finger that would prove his _Akaito_ still exists even after everything fell apart. 

Before Chanyeol can grasp what he’s doing, his pointer finger is making its way over the center console, and Junmyeon slowly turns his head, eyes focused on his fingertip. Chanyeol pulls his hand away so hard that it thwacks against his stomach. 

“So, uh, how’s school going?” Junmyeon tries to smooth over the moment, still wondering what the hell kind of ET move Chanyeol was trying to pull. He’d been trying not to delve into personal things when they were all talking earlier, but anything would be better than the smothering silence.

“Good, fine.” Chanyeol picks at a loose string on his hoodie. “I don’t know if Minseok’s told you anything, but I’m still an undecided major. Basically I’m taking a ton of different classes right now to see if anything will stick.”

“Has anything?”

“Right now I’m taking Anatomy, Intermediate Algebra, Geography, and an art 101 class where everything I try to draw or make ends up looking like a dick,” Chanyeol flatly replies.

“So no.”

“Not even close.”

“You’ll get there. The basic classes are always the hardest to get through.” 

“Right.”

More insufferable silence falls between them.

“So what are you doing, now? I know you don’t work with Minseok anymore,” Chanyeol asks.

“I work as an accountant for a privatized distributor of medical supplies.”

Chanyeol blinks, then dryly says, “Wow. It’s like you’re one step away from being the next 007.”

Nostalgia hits Junmyeon at the way Chanyeol can effortlessly make him smile.

“Don’t think that your sarcasm undermines the awesomeness of my job.”

A strange kind of sadness washes over Junmyeon when they reach the university. Chanyeol hikes his backpack over his shoulder and turns around to wave one last time before speed-walking down the sidewalk. Just like old times, Junmyeon has no clear understanding of what space really is until Chanyeol isn’t occupying it anymore. 

He tries his best not to think about it as he drives back to Minseok’s, picking up a potent sleeping aid from the pharmacy across the street before entering the apartment. 

“You’re back,” Minseok weakly greets as he walks in. He’s still on the couch, but he’s put on a floppy sweatshirt that Junmyeon recognizes as Chanyeol’s. More undeserved jealousy. The bulky material of the sleeves goes past Minseok’s hands. “Did it go okay?”

“It was fine.” Junmyeon waves the pharmacy’s bag in the air. “Brought you drugs.”

“You’re the best friend ever.”

“As soon as you feel like sleeping, let me know. These things will knock you right out.” Junmyeon knew from experience.

“Maybe in a little bit. I’m still too worried of what I’m going to dream about.”

“When, uh…” Junmyeon sits down on the couch. He wishes Chanyeol were here, if only for the fact that the kid knew how to keep talking—keep Minseok’s attention. “When did it show up?”

“I woke up this morning around one. My whole right hand was numb. Thought I’d been sleeping on it wrong but then it _moved_.” Minseok huddles deeper into the hoodie. “Had a proper panic attack, took a long shower, then texted Chanyeol around four because I just wanted someone to hug me. Ridiculous, right?”

“No. Not ridiculous,” Junmyeon sighs. He tries putting his own arm around Minseok’s shoulders but it only ends up being awkward. At least Minseok laughs with his effort. 

“See, this is why I wanted both of you here.”

The two of them fill the day with stupid comedies and a rerun of the latest English Premier League match. Chanyeol gets back to the apartment around four, bearing the weight of grocery bags in his arms. He begins cooking in the kitchen after asking Minseok how he’s doing, avoiding Junmyeon’s gaze when he adds on an extra “ _thank you_ ,” for the ride to class.

A little later, all three of them are eating what Junmyeon thinks is the best homemade macaroni and cheese he’s ever had. 

“Ever think of taking cooking classes?” he asks.

Chanyeol shakes his head. “No. I still like to cook and don’t want to ruin it. My mom made a career out of it and the last time I whined and asked her to make me a PB&J sandwich she chucked a loaf of bread at the back of my head.”

Junmyeon feels his throat go dry at the mention of Mrs. Park, sipping down more of the beer that Chanyeol bought specifically for him. 

They spend the rest of the evening cleaning up the mess Chanyeol made. Then more movies, more distractions. Around ten, Minseok dislodges himself from Chanyeol’s grip and stands from the couch.

“I’m going to sleep,” he announces, taking a deep breath. Junmyeon reaches for the pills, going to hand them to Minseok, but he shakes his head. “I’m exhausted. I’ll try it without the drugs first, then come back out if I need them. Are you guys staying?”

Minseok has never been needy, or clingy—remaining stoic to his deeper emotions on most days—but Junmyeon can hear the silent _please_ behind his words. 

“Yeah,” Chanyeol and Junmyeon answer at the same time, startling when they remember who else they’re agreeing to spend the night with. 

“All the linens are in the closet. There’s the guest room down the hall, and someone can sleep on the couch. Sorry, I’d be a better host but—”

“Stop apologizing all the time and go to bed,” Junmyeon says, waving his hands at Minseok to shoo him away. Minseok looks between him and Chanyeol, opening his mouth to say something, but he shuts it and turns to disappear down the hall. 

Junmyeon ends up on the couch, mindlessly staring at the TV even though his brain feels full with bright images from watching it all day. Chanyeol is set up with a math textbook, notebook, and calculator on the coffee table. He keeps on doing the same equation over and over, messing up because half of his mind is on Junmyeon and the other half honestly doesn’t understand how to solve it.

Fifteen minutes pass. Chanyeol doesn’t know he’s making little noises of frustration until Junmyeon sits beside him on the floor. This is the closest they’ve been in a long, long time. The fabric of their sleeves brush, but Chanyeol seems to be the only one to notice as Junmyeon peers into his textbook. 

“Having a problem?” he whispers. Chanyeol knows it’s because Minseok is _hopefully_ sleeping down the hall, but the softness of his voice makes him shiver. 

“Yes. Math. Math is my problem. I have a test tomorrow and can only get through like, half the equations on the study sheet.”

There are only two lights on in the living room, not counting the television. The shadows catch over Junmyeon’s face, making his eyes look darker, eyelashes thicker. His hair is ruffled in that way it only gets when he’s stressed out, continuously raking his fingers through it.

“Want help?”

Chanyeol thinks he wants a lot of things. Maybe at the top of his list is time travel, to take back that last phone call between the two of them. Now that Junmyeon is right beside him it’s hard not to fall into that same desire to call him _mine mine mine_. But that’s over. Done. Instead he says, “Do you even remember any of it? The equations you use are probably way above this.”

“Some of it still has use in my everyday work, like this one,” Junmyeon murmurs, pointing at a particular problem. His eyes scan over the sheet. “And for the most part, I recognize a lot of this.”

Junmyeon is very, very handsome. When Junmyeon looks up, Chanyeol flinches out of his stare, covering it up with, “Fucking nerd.”

Junmyeon only manages a half-hearted glare before the two of them settle into the first couple equations. The tension between them dissolves with every explicative Chanyeol says under his breath; every time Junmyeon chuckles and nudges Chanyeol with his elbow when he finally gets something right. 

Sometimes their legs press against each other, seeping warmth through fabric. Skin brushes as Junmyeon points at something by Chanyeol’s hand. And it’s just so fucking comfortable. Their sleepy voices mingle and it lulls both of them into a quiet sense of security. It’s almost like just for the night, they can be at ease. Fall back into each other without dwelling on rough memories.

One by one, they finish the sheets of equations. Chanyeol knows that by tomorrow morning, most of it will have fallen right back out of his head, onto the pillow, but at least he’ll get extra credit for finishing the practice test.

Junmyeon and Chanyeol take turns changing into their borrowed pajamas. The biggest pair of soccer shorts Minseok has barely fits Chanyeol’s ass, but he’ll take it over sleeping in the scratchy denim of his skinny jeans. Junmyeon may or may not sneak a couple more glances of his butt than necessary.

The two of them argue over who will sleep on the couch. Chanyeol tries convincing Junmyeon to take the guest room by mentioning his “old man back,” which only gets him whacked on the shoulder as Junmyeon points out Chanyeol’s feet will hang off the end of the couch if he stays in the living room. Their quarreling ends when they hear something come from Minseok’s room. 

Both of them stop, ears pricked, then they speed-walk into Minseok’s bedroom.

Minseok is sitting on the edge of his bed, his back to them. It takes Junmyeon a moment to see through the moonlight filtering through the window that Minseok’s shoulders are trembling. He’s sniffling, grunting as he tries to cover up sobbing breaths. Of course, just as Junmyeon is processing what’s going on, Chanyeol has already crossed the room. He plops beside Minseok so hard the mattress threatens to bounce the smaller man away, but Chanyeol wraps his arms around Minseok’s shoulders and holds him tightly to his chest.

Junmyeon is frozen, as always, as Chanyeol brushes his hand over Minseok’s back. With just their silhouettes, Chanyeol engulfs Minseok’s small form. 

“I loved her,” Minseok whimpers, his voice muffled by Chanyeol’s shoulder, “I really, really loved her.”

“I know,” Chanyeol says, glancing over at Junmyeon and jerking his head to signal him over.

Junmyeon carefully sits on the other side of Minseok, placing his hand on Minseok’s thigh in what he hopes is a comforting way.

Minseok has two threads now. 

One is silver, only seen at slight angles when it catches the light. It has no true direction. Following it will only send someone mindlessly wandering around the world. It never tugs or shivers, only floats without any real weight. 

One is bright red, tied right above the other. It has gravity, promise. Someone is waiting on the other end of the string. After Minseok’s adventure and love and heartbreak, he’s standing at the foot of a brand new mountain and it’s terrifying.

There is a less than fifteen percent chance of having two threads in your lifetime. Junmyeon couldn’t handle _one_ , so to put himself into Minseok’s shoes is almost unbearable even to think about. 

“I just—I know this is—” Minseok tries his best to speak evenly, but it’s hard when his lungs don’t want to work right. “I know she’d want me to be happy. That this is—this is all for a reason—b—but I really fucking loved her and—”

He can’t seem to get the rest out. Chanyeol smooths his hand over the back of Minseok’s head while Junmyeon stays frozen with his hand on his friend’s thigh. The three of them sit like that, Chanyeol soothing Minseok, until his sniffles die down. Junmyeon looks up at Chanyeol. The kid is always so willing to give as much love as he has to offer. His warmth is encompassing, even when Junmyeon isn’t the one in his arms. 

Chanyeol looks down at Junmyeon’s hand as Minseok begins to gently peel himself away, wiping his face on his shirt. There’s silence filled with Minseok’s shaky breathing, until Chanyeol says, “So Minseok, just how clammy and uncomfortable is Junmyeon’s hand right now?”

Minseok is so surprised that he lets out a loud series of hiccups, but they turn to raspy chuckling. “It feels like a wet corpse has a grip on my thigh.”

Junmyeon instantly retracts his hand, affronted as he holds it against his chest. He ignores Chanyeol and Minseok’s continuing banter as he walks out of the room. When he returns, he hands Minseok a damp washcloth to wipe his face down with. As Minseok cleans himself up, Junmyeon pops two pills out of their packaging and sets them on the bedside table next to a glass of ice cold water.

“Thank you,” Minseok murmurs as he hands Junmyeon the washcloth back. “I’m sorry you guys have to coddle me. Tomorrow I’ll be better, I promise.”

Junmyeon hopes Minseok can feel the scowl he’s sending his way. “If you apologize one more time, you’re going to wake up to a very messy apartment.”

Minseok shudders at the thought. He grabs the pills and tosses them down his throat before settling back beneath his blankets. Junmyeon and Chanyeol stay seated on his bed, the three of them talking in low voices until Minseok’s eyes drift shut and the sound of his steady breathing fills the room.

Wordlessly, Junmyeon and Chanyeol get ready for bed. Junmyeon sets up the couch for Chanyeol, too exhausted to argue anymore. After Chanyeol is snuggled up in a blanket, all that’s peering at him are his big dark eyes, Junmyeon goes to turn the lights off. 

With a click, the room dives into complete darkness. 

Chanyeol bites his lip, still holding back something he’s been wanting to say since Junmyeon started helping him with his math problems. Junmyeon shuffles around in the kitchen, accidentally knocking some things over as he grabs his own glass of water. 

“Thank you,” Chanyeol finally, quietly says, unsure if Junmyeon heard him. But he hears Junmyeon’s footsteps stop. “For being good to me, today. Nice. It could have been a lot worse, but I’m glad you did it for Minseok.”

A pause. A long inhale.

“It’s not just for Minseok. You’re my _Akaito_. I want to treat you well. I want…you to be happy.”

Chanyeol is stunned, staring off into the darkness. Just as he begins to compose a thought, he can hear Junmyeon shuffling out of the room. 

The door closes down the hall. 

 

☓

 

_You’re my_ Akaito.

The words echo through Chanyeol the entirety of the next day. What Junmyeon said isn’t supposed to make his heartbeat accelerate; stirring excitement. Because it’s not the claim or profession he once thought it was. It’s a statement of a fact, one that could have been something much more but means almost nothing at this point.

As much as he tries to repeat that to himself, after a long day of classes and a shift at the coffee stall, the moment he walks into Minseok’s apartment and Junmyeon greets him with a tentative smile, his resolve melts. Chanyeol hurries past, ignoring Junmyeon’s, “ _Hey_ ,” altogether because he wants to be strong and not care, and it’s infuriating how his emotions are still a marionette doll in Junmyeon’s hands. Better to find Minseok and focus on him.

Chanyeol peers into Minseok’s empty room, and his office, then finally the bathroom, before walking back in the living room to find that Minseok had been sitting next to Junmyeon on the couch all along. The two older men look at him with raised eyebrows.

Later that night, Chanyeol blearily blinks into the interior of the refrigerator. He’d told Minseok he’d cook a late dinner, but is so exhausted that even the thought of opening can of pre-made curry sauce makes him want to whine. He leans against the refrigerator door, contemplating takeout, when the little hairs on the back of his neck rise. 

“Do you want help?” Junmyeon’s voice is soft and clear from where he’s hovering at Chanyeol’s side. Their shoulders brush, a small warmth. Chanyeol gulps and makes a grab for random ingredients. 

“Nah, I’ve got this.” He shuts the door with his hip and dumps the food on the counter.

Junmyeon may not be a master of cooking but he seems to know deli meat and horseradish are not a part of tikka masala. “Obviously.”

“You’re a hazard just by standing in the kitchen. I’ve seen you cook before,” Chanyeol says.

“I made toast yesterday!”

“That wasn’t toast. That was the _remnants_ of toast. Basically put charcoal on a plate and gave it to Minseok.”

“ _He_ didn’t seem to have a problem with it.”

“ _He_ is also not in the right state of mind to—”

“Chanyeol. I’m right here,” Minseok calmly calls from the living room, “and not only can I hear you, but you’re within throwing distance of my coaster.”

“See?” Junmyeon says, “Meltdown or not, Minseok—”

“I have _two_ coasters,” Minseok adds. “Shut up. The toast was terrible.”

Chanyeol smirks. 

Junmyeon glowers. “You look exhausted.” He determinedly rolls up the sleeves of his cardigan. “I know I’m not the best at this, but just tell me what to do.”

Chanyeol opens his mouth to brush him off again, but the way Junmyeon has puffed out his chest—like some blowfish trying to make himself look bigger and more intimidating—has him giving in. 

“Fine. Wash the vegetables. Try not to catch anything on fire.”

Junmyeon puts all of his effort into meticulously washing the onions and peppers as Chanyeol prepares the rice and marinates the chicken. Chanyeol leans over Junmyeon to grab the paper towels. He’s thinking about adding more salt to the marinade when Junmyeon murmurs, “You smell good. Like coffee.”

Chanyeol freezes where his arm is extended in front of Junmyeon, realizing just how close they are. His breath stirs the hair on the side of Junmyeon’s head as he covers up his awkwardness with a huff and says, “That’s because I spent six hours serving it to people today.”

“After class?” Junmyeon asks. “I wanted to ask you, how did your math test go?”

Junmyeon’s full attention is on Chanyeol. Suddenly, Chanyeol wants to snap at him, ask, “ _why would you care, anyway_?” because it’s unfair that Junmyeon still seems to interested and sincere with him. He swallows it down, bowing his head as he cleans up the mess he made with the marinade. 

“Fine, I hope.”

Chanyeol can still feel Junmyeon’s eyes on him, then the other man goes back to drying the vegetables. “Good.”

The three of them end up eating around eight, Junmyeon goading Minseok into finishing his whole plate. Eventually Minseok shoves the remaining food in his mouth just to make him shut up.

Around eleven, Minseok dutifully takes the sleeping aid and konks out on his bed, limbs sprawled out. Chanyeol snickers and takes a couple pictures on his phone before Junmyeon lowly chastises him. But then Junmyeon sees drool sliding out of the corner of Minseok’s mouth and ushers Chanyeol over to snap another one. 

“Could you send it to me?” Junmyeon whispers as the two of them walk out of the room, gently shutting the door behind themselves. Chanyeol nods, bringing his phone up, then stops. 

“Um.” His shoulders squirm. “I don’t…have your number anymore. I deleted you from my contacts.”

“Oh.” Junmyeon blinks. He waits for Chanyeol to ask him what it is, but Chanyeol puts his phone into his pocket and walks away. 

When Junmyeon joins Chanyeol in the living room again, Chanyeol is studying a picture on the wall. It’s of Minseok and his wife, the two of them with their arms wrapped around each other and their cheeks pressed together. They’re grinning like idiots—silly in a way Junmyeon’s only seen Minseok act a couple times. 

Junmyeon walks to Chanyeol’s side, the two of them staring at the picture. Sadness stirs through Junmyeon’s chest at the thought of his friend without his _Akaito._ They were so happy. He thinks Chanyeol is on the same page as him until Chanyeol somberly says, “I still can’t believe that Minseok was married to Sasquatch.”

Junmyeon whacks Chanyeol in the stomach, making him double over. 

“Are you fucking serious? Like you have any room to talk, you giant freak.”

When Chanyeol straightens again, he’s smiling. “Kidding, I’m kidding. It’s just that I never expected little ol’ Minseok to be tied to a woman who was a head taller than him.”

“You’re a head taller than me,” Junmyeon replies without thinking. When he looks up, Chanyeol’s eyes are trained on him, dark with something unreadable that he hasn’t been able to figure out yet. It makes him uneasy.

“Yeah, well…Don’t tell me you weren’t surprised, when you first saw a picture of her.”

“I saw her when she was still alive,” Junmyeon says. “She came to bring Minseok lunch before I really knew him. She was definitely a strong, tall woman, but when the two of them were together, something about her turned dainty in his presence.”

“Did I ever turn dainty, to you?”

Junmyeon snorts then tries to turn it into a cough when he realizes Chanyeol wasn’t kidding. With warmth, he says, “No. You were always clunky and too big. An oversized Golden Retriever.” Chanyeol’s face falls, so Junmyeon hurries to add, “But I like—liked that about you. And all of the overwhelming affection that came with it.”

“Sorry. It was a dumb question. Don’t know why I asked,” Chanyeol says, backing away and landing on the couch. 

“It wasn’t dumb.” Junmyeon sits down beside him, the two of them simultaneously looking down to take in the mere inch of space left between them on the cushion. Chanyeol scoots away, wary of even letting Junmyeon be physically close when he knows that soon, he and Junmyeon will be back to their own respective lives. Separate. 

The small movement makes Junmyeon’s gut drop. Chanyeol used to be so eager to huddle up to him, taking everything he could. He’s at fault, but he finds himself desperately missing the way Chanyeol desperately wanted him.

 

☓

 

Junmyeon’s back is killing him. He groans as he stirs out of his sleep, blinking until the lone light of the TV screen in front of him stops burning his eyes. Half-lidded, he sees the blob of Chanyeol’s huddled form at the end of the couch. The kid looks to be on the cusp of sleep.

“Told you that your back couldn’t take the couch.” Chanyeol’s voice is low and gravelly. Sitting on the cushion, his knees are curled up to his chest; entire right side pressed against the back of the couch. His cheek is pressed against the upholstery, sleepily regarding Junmyeon with eyes that barely catch the television’s gleam. 

“What time is it?” Junmyeon asks with an equally rough voice. He must have drifted off somewhere between the news and late-nite reruns. 

“Little past three.”

“Why aren’t you asleep?” Junmyeon murmurs, but doesn’t bother to move. “Don’t you have to work tomorrow?”

“Got someone to cover my shift. Wanted to be here with Minseok, instead.” Chanyeol heavily blinks. Unguarded affection stirs through Junmyeon. 

“Also,” Chanyeol says, closing his eyes, “someone fell asleep on my temporary bed.”

Only the low grumble of the TV fills the living room until Junmyeon abruptly says, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. You don’t sleep well when you’re stressed out. Didn’t want to disturb you.”

“No, Chanyeol, I—” Junmyeon deeply inhales. He’s starting to wake up and wants to get the words out before the drunken feeling of exhaustion clears. “I’m sorry for hurting you. For not properly taking care of our tether and being— _letting_ myself be a mess. I don’t regret being cautious, but I regret that it led to us breaking up.”

Chanyeol’s eyes crack slightly open. There’s that look again—deep with something uninterpretable. 

“You have to be dating someone to break up, don’t you? You obviously avoided that at all costs.”

_Oh_ , Junmyeon thinks as the tone of Chanyeol’s voice registers, _that’s what it is_. Anger. Hurt. Caution. He just didn’t recognize it on Chanyeol’s face. But just as a lump rises in his throat his _Akaito_ ’s expression softens. 

“Sorry,” Chanyeol whispers, squeezing his eyes shut again. “Sorry, _sorry_. Thanks for the apology. Just—just don’t say anything else about it. Please.”

“Why—”

“You’re making it harder. For when this is going to be over.”

Over. Junmyeon hadn’t given it much thought. Ever since he walked through Minseok’s door to see Chanyeol standing in the doorway, except for caring for Minseok, his every moment had revolved around the kid. Junmyeon _has_ thought about Chanyeol’s smile, and his ugly laughter, and any possible way that Junmyeon could fix some of what he’d broken. The fact that they’d part ways again once Minseok felt better hadn’t occurred to him.

But now that it has, it hurts. Now Junmyeon is fully awake and his whole body is tense and he wants to tumble right back into sleep because this is all too sharply real. 

Junmyeon rises from the couch, wincing at the protest of his bones. He gathers up the blanket that is folded on the loveseat and goes to drape it over Chanyeol. Chanyeol straightens, reaching out to grab the blanket instead. He won’t even allow Junmyeon to cover him up tonight. 

“Okay,” Junmyeon says, handing it over so Chanyeol can wrap it around his shoulders. “Okay…” He takes in a deep breath, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt so he won’t be tempted to reach out again. Chanyeol’s eyes are still closed, a silent dismissal, and Junmyeon retreats to the guest room.

 

☓

 

< _I’m doing it_. _Come with me_? >

Trepidation shoves Junmyeon. In a corner of the flower shop, he stares at his phone. Minseok’s text is irrefutably punched against the white background of his screen. Junmyeon wants to ask him if he’s sure, if he’s really thought this through. It’s the first time in a couple days that Minseok has gotten fresh air, and maybe it’s messed with the proper chemistry of his brain. 

Before Junmyeon can text back any of that, his phone vibrates over and over again as emoticons fill the group chat. Fireworks and kissy faces and piles of shit. _Chanyeol_ , expressing his enthusiasm through a random penguin and then line after line of flowers and hearts. 

Junmyeon snorts back a laugh as Minseok interrupts the flow with, < _Chanyeol, you’re uninvited_. >

< _You really want to do this_? > Junmyeon texts just before Chanyeol sends a pouting selfie. He opens it up to full-screen and gets a little too distracted looking at Chanyeol’s bottom lip while the telltale sound of one of the flower misters gurgles to life. He’s sprayed in the back of his head, making him sputter and almost drop his phone. A little girl hovering at her mother’s side, gripping a hydrangea in her tiny fist, asks Junmyeon if he’s okay. Junmyeon assures her he’s fine. 

< _Yes_. > Minseok texts back. < _I am._ >

Then, they form somewhat of a plan. Chanyeol, Junmyeon, and Minseok had separated after a Saturday morning of watching sitcoms and eating way too many cinnamon rolls. Chanyeol headed to State to return a borrowed textbook. Minseok went to Lachowski, Miller & Co. to gather material he needed to catch up on what work he’d missed. Then Junmyeon had gotten called into the flower shop to cover a small gap between scheduled shifts. 

< _Junmyeon, pick up Chanyeol in an hour. Meet me at the parking garage by LM &C, then we’ll all go together_.>

Junmyeon doesn’t know how Chanyeol will feel about the two of them being alone in the car again, but Chanyeol texts < _Sounds good_. > and a barrage of ladies in red dresses dancing, so he figures it’s okay.

Junmyeon arrives at Chanyeol’s student housing complex right on time, and uses the group chat session to let Chanyeol know he’s waiting. Fifteen minutes pass. Junmyeon tries calling Chanyeol. No answer. Fifteen more minutes. Another text. 

< _Go up to his apartment and knock on the door. Maybe he fell asleep_. > Minseok texts.

“Well, shit,” Junmyeon grumbles to himself. 

Baekhyun is the one who opens the door. Eye to eye with Junmyeon, he glares.

“ _You_.”

“Yes. Me,” Junmyeon tiredly says. He knows Baekhyun is going for an intimidating look, but if Chanyeol is an oversized Golden Retriever, then Baekhyun is a disgruntled Corgi. “Is Chanyeol here?”

“Why should I tell you?” Baekhyun asks, steaming sass.

“Because, _Byun Baekhyun_.” Junmyeon tries not to smirk as Baekhyun flinches. “Chanyeol and I made plans that I was going to pick him up. He was supposed to come down to my car half an hour ago, and he’s not replying to any of my texts. He’s keeping Minseok waiting.”

“Oh,” Baekhyun loses some of his bravado. “I thought—okay. Uh, he’s not here. Let me try to call him.”

Baekhyun steps to the side, and even though Junmyeon knows he shouldn’t, that this is all a bad idea, he walks into the apartment and shuts the door behind himself. 

“Who’re you?” 

College delinquents. YOUTH. A group of them lounging around the TV, playing a PS4. They even pause the game so all of them can stare at Junmyeon with that stupid, unbridled confidence all university students seem to have. 

Junmyeon fights back a grimace. They all look so _young_. It’s a small crowd of snapbacks, beanies, State shirts, Converse, and jeans with holes in them. Some of them are even sitting on goddamn bean bags. Junmyeon hasn’t touched a bean bag in ten years.

Just as he recognizes one of the faces, Sehun says, “Oh. He’s an old pervert who used to be obsessed with Chanyeol.”

Most of the other kids seem to know better than to take Sehun seriously, but the girl molded to his side loudly whispers, “Seriously?” as she eyes Junmyeon. 

Sehun nods as Junmyeon tries to remind himself he’s the adult in the room, and throwing his wallet like a ninja star at a nineteen year old would be a very un-adult thing to do. 

“Yup. Used to follow Chanyeol around, begging him for a date.”

Everyone is still staring at Junmyeon, like seeing a grown-up in their apartment is akin to seeing some strange animal at the zoo. So exotic. So weirdly put together. 

“Sehun. Your mouth. No.” Baekhyun says, turning to Junmyeon as he pulls his phone down from his ear. “Chanyeol’s not answering me. He probably got stuck with something on campus. I know that he wouldn’t do it on purpose if he knew Minseok was waiting for him.”

“Right.” Junmyeon represses a sigh. 

“He’s like forty years old and he actually thought he had a chance with Chanyeol,” Sehun continues. His voice is bland but his eyes are sharp, focused on Junmyeon. His own version of revenge.

“Yeah right,” a boy on the floor says through a mouth of Cheetos. “He can’t be forty years old. Dude, how old are you?”

Just then, Junmyeon’s phone buzzes. 

It’s Chanyeol.  < _IM SO SPRRY I GOT CAUGHT UO IM ON MY WAY_ >

Baekhyun looks at the screen and says, “See? You can stay out here and hang with us,” the kids chuckle to themselves, “or you can wait for him in his room.”

_I’ll wait in my car_ is on the tip of Junmyeon’s tongue, but he finds himself saying, “I think I’ll wait in his room.” Junmyeon nods to the others, zeroing in on Sehun. “Nice to meet you guys.”

“Same.”

“Right.”

“Stay away from his underwear drawer!” Sehun calls after him. 

“Is he seriously obsessed with Chanyeol?” Junmyeon hears one of the girls ask just before he shuts himself in Chanyeol’s room. He faces the door, thunking his forehead against it a couple times, before turning around. 

Everything looks like Chanyeol. Everything smells like Chanyeol. His bed is made, and Junmyeon can see Wonder Woman sheets peeking from beneath the blue comforter. Posters of Chanyeol’s favorite bands decorate the walls, and his guitar, looking lonely without Chanyeol’s big hands around it, sits on a stand in the corner. 

His desk is littered with textbooks and notebooks, and a crappy old laptop that has duct tape around its frame to keep it together. Junmyeon runs his finger along a big crack in the screen. He gets out his wallet. There’s a few bills between the folds. He wonders how many he can stuff into the pockets of Chanyeol’s hoodie, or in the bottom of the athletic bag sitting at the foot of his bed, before Chanyeol realizes it’s not happy happenstance he forgot he had the money and that someone planted it there.

Junmyeon considers the sock drawer, deciding that’s the best place to start, and turns to Chanyeol’s dresser.

His heart stops. 

There’s a picture in a frame of Chanyeol. Of Chanyeol and another boy. A boy with a big, gummy smile who is looking at Chanyeol in such a besotted way that Junmyeon is hit with a flash of hot jealousy that liquidates his stomach. His hands bunch into fists as he restrains himself from chucking the picture across the room. Chanyeol is smiling. Eyes gleam as he makes a face for the camera, completely unaware that the boy he’s cuddled up to looks seconds away from kissing him. 

_Hurts, hurts, hurts_. 

Junmyeon shouldn’t be surprised. He wanted Chanyeol to be able to move on, and that’s what he did. Junmyeon gulps, shaking his fingers loose from the fist. In some kind of sick way, he can’t stop looking at the picture. This is what Chanyeol looks like, happy, without him. 

His legs can’t seem to match his thoughts, which are telling him, _leave, go wait in the car_ , and he ends up lifelessly sitting on the edge of Chanyeol’s bed. He thought the worst of his heartache was over, but his chest stings with a new vengeance. 

Because another boy is touching Chanyeol. Kissing him. Calling him late at night. Able to call Chanyeol _his_ , something Junmyeon always wanted but was too terrified to make happen. 

Since that night with Yixing, Junmyeon has dated a few times. Slept with two of them. He wasn’t concerned with making any of them into his boyfriend, so the relationships never lasted that long. Junmyeon is finished with trying to fill his loneliness with other men. 

Chanyeol bursts into his room, startling Junmyeon so much he almost falls off the bed. 

“I’m sorry!” Chanyeol exclaims, throwing his backpack to the floor and tossing his keys on the dresser. He runs to his closet. There’s grass stains all over his jeans, and he’s sweating through the long-sleeved State shirt he’s wearing. Breathing deep, he launches into, “I was leaving the cafeteria after getting my work schedule and there was this girl walking her Collie and then the Collie got loose and she started crying and it was running all over the place so I was helping her chase after it but it just thought we were playing so it took forever to get back on the leash and it almost got hit like three times by a car—”

Junmyeon is dazed as Chanyeol whips his shirt off, revealing a long expanse of dewy skin, but it shaken out of it as Chanyeol pulls another t-shirt over his head. It gets caught on his face, and he’s still babbling on about the dog as he blindly stumbles a step back. Junmyeon is on his feet and steadying him before he can think, placing a hand on the small of Chanyeol’s back so he doesn’t fall. 

The touch against Chanyeol’s skin shuts him right up. Chanyeol stops moving.

“Uh, thanks,” he says, voice muffled through the shirt. Junmyeon snatches his hand back, his fingers buzzing. Chanyeol slowly finds his way through the shirt, his head popping out as he slowly turns to look at Junmyeon. “But, um, that’s why I was late.”

“I understand.” 

“I have to change. My pants,” Chanyeol says, and before Junmyeon can politely excuse himself, Chanyeol snatches a pair of sweatpants from his closet and bolts from the room. He reappears moments later and throws his jeans into his laundry basket. “Sorry you had to wait so long. This is such a huge moment for Minseok and I _knew_ that and I still ran after the dog.”

“I’m sure Minseok won't mind. I'm glad you got the dog—that would have weighed heavy on you,” Junmyeon says, and the relieved slouch of Chanyeol’s shoulders tells him he agrees.

“I'm ready, let's head out.” Chanyeol picks his bag off the floor then reaches for his keys. They landed right next to the picture frame, knocking it slightly askew. He reaches out to straighten it then flinches, can't cover his reaction well enough as he glances at Junmyeon. 

“He's attractive,” Junmyeon blurts, eager to seem completely one hundred percent super duper nonchalant. It doesn't work. His voice cracks on the next word. “Boyfriend?”

Chanyeol gulps. Goes motionless. Junmyeon thinks the kid is seconds away from playing possum and feinting death, so he rushes to add, “It's okay, Chanyeol. It really is. I was just curious. You don't have to answer that.”

“We should go,” Chanyeol quietly says, turning and walking through the door to his bedroom. Junmyeon follows. His head pounds. 

Like flicking a switch, Chanyeol is all smiles and dumb laughter as he quickly makes his rounds through his friends in the living room. They ask him to stay and grumble when he says he has somewhere else to be. 

“You sure you want to be alone in a car with this guy, Yeol?” Sehun asks. 

“Shut up,” Baekhyun and Chanyeol say together with a tone of practiced regularity.

When Chanyeol and Junmyeon pick Minseok up from the parking garage, he serenely forgives Chanyeol for making them late. 

“But hopefully this whole follow-the-string thing won’t take a long time,” Minseok admits, strapping himself into the passenger seat. “I’m really losing my nerve. If we don’t…reach the end of the string in two hours, we’re going to stop. Try again some other day.”

No one argues with that.

Following the string is much, much easier in a car, Chanyeol thinks. Unlike when Chanyeol sought out Junmyeon, this ordeal is quiet. Minseok watches his hand and murmurs directions to Junmyeon, who navigates through the heavy city traffic like he’s on a Sunday drive. Every now and then Junmyeon glances at Minseok, looking for any kind of hesitation, but Minseok has retreated into some depth of himself that makes him hard to read.

Chanyeol closes his eyes and leans his temple against the cool window. He’d rather not make comparisons between Minseok’s new beginning and what happened to him almost two years ago. Remembering how excited and determined he’d been seems laughable now. 

And yet his heart still jerked against his ribs when Junmyeon touched him, asked him about the picture; a blossom of something disgustingly hopeful that he needs to put all of his effort into quelling. He just needs to make it through these next couple days. Then he’ll be free of that ugly feeling. 

It comes much sooner than expected. Minseok tells Junmyeon to pull over to the side of the road, his voice shaking. Chanyeol and Junmyeon may not be able to see the string, but they can see Minseok’s hand twitching from the force of it. 

Chanyeol rights himself, looking anxiously between Minseok and Junmyeon as Junmyeon harshly puts the car in park. They all jerk with the force of it—Junmyeon is so focused on Minseok’s face he doesn’t offer an apology. 

They’ve ended up on the edge of the city in a neighborhood that looks a lot like Chanyeol’s. The houses, some of them shabby albeit well-tended, are crammed closely together. The particular house they’re parked in front of, the one that Minseok is intently staring at, has crumbling siding and a roof in need of some love. But the grass is trimmed, there’s a modest garden lining the sidewalk, and a small Manchester United flag flaps in the wind from where it’s posted by the front door. 

“ManU,” Minseok breathes, “Gross.”

It seems to give him a little bit of strength, though. Before Junmyeon can ask if he’s okay, or Chanyeol can make some ill-timed joke, Minseok has opened the door and stepped out of the car. He looks possessed as he strides up the sidewalk that leads to the house. His hand is raised and clenched in a fist long before he reaches the door; it looks like he almost collides with it from his effort to ride out his last gust of determination. 

“He’s doing it,” Junmyeon says, filled with disbelief. All Chanyeol can do is nod as Minseok knocks at the door. He thinks about the story Minseok shared about his wife, how he was sleeping on a friend’s futon, freshly threaded, when she tried barreling the door down to get to him. So much time has passed and Minseok still carries his _Akaito_ with him. Gearing him forward. 

Minseok looks so small in front of the house. 

There’s nothing. Silence.

A car drives by. 

Minseok takes a step back, wringing his hands. 

Then the door opens.

Chanyeol clambers over the central divider to get a good look. Junmyeon tugs on the back of his shirt to get him to move so they can both shamelessly watch from the car. 

“Is that a guy, or is that a girl?” Chanyeol whispers.

Whatever gender, the person looks surprised to see Minseok. The door swings open and whacks against the side of the house, almost hitting Minseok on the rebound, but he sticks his hand out to stop it. The hand with the string. Minseok’s _Akaito_ looks down at his fingers, then back at Minseok. 

“I think it's a guy,” Junmyeon replies. 

“No. Too pretty to be a guy.”

“ _I’m_ pretty, and I’m a guy.”

Chanyeol snorts, even though it’s true. “You’re not _that_ kind of pretty. Dude looks like a princess, even in that getup.”

Minseok’s _Akaito_ looks to be only a little taller than him, with black hair that’s pushed back with a thick periwinkle headband. Something bright blue is blotted on his left cheek and forehead, overpowering his fairy features. He’s wearing an apron with other colors—paint, maybe—splotched over it. All the two men do for a moment is stare at each other.

Minseok’s _Akaito_ snaps out of the daze first, seemingly distracted as he glances behind himself. He hurries to bend over, arms reaching toward something, but whatever he was trying to catch is too fast. 

A toddler breaks out from beneath his legs, shrieking with laughter that the guys can hear in the car. The kid, looking like a paint bomb exploded over him, looks far too pleased about his jailbreak to be too concerned with Minseok, who is frozen in place. The toddler’s stubby little legs are surprisingly quick until he trips and smashes face-first in the grass. 

Now Junmyeon and Chanyeol can hear him crying. 

“Holy shit.” Chanyeol says what Junmyeon has been thinking. “Holy shit holy shit, you think that’s his kid?”

Minseok’s _Akaito_ is over to the fallen baby in three strides, gathering him into his arms.

Another kid peers out of the open doorway. A girl, about four or five years old. She has her arms crossed and is looking up at Minseok, scrutinizing. Minseok takes a careful step back. 

“Holy _shit_.”

“He could be babysitting them,” Junmyeon offers, but they watch the way the man cradles the toddler, how the kid clings and buries its face against his shoulder. Probably the most telling sign is when the girl in the doorway yells, “ _Daaaaad_ , who’s he?”

“Oh my god.” Chanyeol’s gut sinks. “What if he’s married? What if Minseok is tied to a married guy?”

Junmyeon doesn’t have a reply. Anxiety thickens the air and it’s almost too much to watch, but Minseok’s _Akaito_ walks back over to him, stepping between him and his girl. They talk, finally, too quiet and calm to be heard in the car. All Chanyeol can see is Minseok’s tense shoulders, the careful set of the other man’s face. 

The toddler has stopped crying. He twists in his dad’s arms to look at Minseok, using a pudgy hand to sullenly wipe at his eyes.

“What’s going on?” Chanyeol asks at the man grabs his daughter’s hand, then starts walking across the lawn to the house next door. 

“No clue. Maybe—” Junmyeon shuts up at Minseok approaches the car, gesturing for him to roll the window down. It’s barely cracked open when Chanyeol asks, “He’s your _Akaito_? Are those his kids? He married?”

Minseok is visibly shaken. It takes him a couple seconds to gather himself together. 

“Yeah, yeah. And I don’t know.” He blinks, going blank. “He’s, uh, going to take them over to his neighbor’s, just long enough for—for us to—uh, talk. So I guess I’ll find out.”

Everyone is quiet, even Chanyeol. Eventually, Junmyeon asks, “Want us to stick around, or should we go for a couple loops around the neighborhood?”

“Loops.” Minseok manages a wobbly smirk. “If I know you’re here waiting I might completely wuss out and take the easy exit.”

“You have your phone?” Junmyeon asks. Minseok nods. It isn’t until his _Akaito_ returns, curiously peering into the car, that Minseok straightens. 

Closer, Chanyeol can make out his clear eyes. Perfect nose. High cheekbones and delicate jawline. For the second time, Chanyeol says, “He’s pretty.”

Minseok lets out a disbelieving breath. “He is.”

It feels wrong to leave Minseok behind, but all Chanyeol can do is watch in the wing mirror as Minseok and his _Akaito_ sit down on a bench by the front door. Junmyeon parks at a liquor store just outside the neighborhood. Chanyeol can see him nervously glancing at his phone laying screen-up in his lap, probably calculating how long it would take to drive back if Minseok needed him right away. 

“Want to come up here?” Junmyeon asks, looking at Chanyeol through the rearview mirror.

_No_ , Chanyeol thinks, but of course he ends up in the passenger seat just ten seconds later. 

Chanyeol looks down at his string. He’d been getting better at ignoring the shifting presence of the thread. There were still some days when he was sitting in the library, or cleaning the machine at the coffee stall, when the shimmering red would catch his eye and slowly change its angle. Junmyeon on the move. It brought too many thoughts of wondering where he was going, if he was meeting anyone else, or sometimes, just hoping that wherever Junmyeon was traveling to, he got there safely.

Now he knows. Chanyeol tries to convince himself that he likes wondering, better. At least then he can’t feel the pressure in his chest from being so close to his _Akaito_. The comfort that would be all too easy to try and fall back into.

Chanyeol doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting in his own thoughts, but when Junmyeon suddenly speaks, his voice is raspy.

“I don’t want this to be over.”

“What?”

Junmyeon clears his throat. There’s a waver in his words, but his jaw is set as he turns his head to look at Chanyeol. “Last night, you said I was making things harder for you by apologizing. Trying to make things better. You said that this—” Junmyeon gestures between the two of them. “—was going to be over when Minseok’s condition improved. Do you really think that?”

“I,” Chanyeol weakly says, “Of course.”

Junmyeon tightly grips the steering wheel. “Do you _want_ that?”

Chanyeol can’t have Junmyeon. So much time has passed and he’s still nursing his wounds, as self-inflicted as many of them are. If he can’t be with Junmyeon, he couldn’t stand anything less. His _heart_ couldn’t stand it.

“Yeah.”

Junmyeon winces. “Well I don’t.”

Chanyeol can’t breathe. “Junmyeon, _don’t_ —”

The phone on Junmyeon’s lap buzzes with a phone call from Minseok, making both of them jump. Junmyeon fumbles to answer it, “ _Hello_? Yeah. Yeah, okay.” Junmyeon hangs up. He can’t bring himself to look at Chanyeol again. “He’s ready to be picked up.”

 

☓

 

Their unfinished conversation is pulled to the back of Junmyeon’s mind after they reach Minseok’s apartment. Minseok pours a huge cup of coffee for himself, the three of them sit at his table, and he fills them in. 

His _Akaito_ ’s name is Luhan.

Luhan is a freelance editor. Most of his work is based off of working for the clients of small publishing houses, but he also edits things for print newspapers and companies who want large reports reviewed for any errors. 

Luhan is twenty-eight.

Luhan has two kids. A boy, a year and a half old, and a girl, who just turned four. He didn’t tell Minseok their names, or anything else about them. They look just like him. 

Luhan is a divorcé.

“Really?” Chanyeol says, trying not to sound too relieved. 

Minseok nods, tracing the rim of his cup with his pointer finger. “His husband left right after his son was born. I don’t know the details, like why or how, but Luhan said he isn’t a part of their life anymore.”

“Did you tell him about your wife?” Junmyeon asks.

“Yes. And then he didn’t know what to say and it got weird so I panicked and ended up insulting his Manchester United flag.”

“Atta boy.” Chanyeol nudges him with his elbow. At least Minseok smiles. 

“Anyway, we weren’t able to talk for long, so we agreed to meet up somewhere else this week. To talk. Start to feel out what this thread might mean.” Minseok sighs. “It’s complicated, but the kids make it _even more_ complicated. I’m trying to only think about the next step or else everything becomes too overwhelming. Honestly, I…I don’t know if I can do this.”

Junmyeon tries rubbing Minseok’s back, then gives up after a couple awkward pats and motions for Chanyeol to. Chanyeol wraps his arm around Minseok’s tiny shoulders. It’s strange how Junmyeon is only a little bit wider—taller—than Minseok, but to Chanyeol, Junmyeon feels so much bigger.

“Remember what you said to me when I first became tied?” Junmyeon asks. Chanyeol stiffens, the hand that had been running up and down Minseok’s arm stuttering in its motion. “People are linked through _Akaito_ for a reason. Keep going. Figure out why.”

When Chanyeol looks at Junmyeon, Junmyeon is staring at him. There’s something in his expression that makes Chanyeol’s stomach curl. 

He excuses himself to go to the bathroom; remind himself how to breathe as he braces his hands against the sides of the sink. 

 

☓

 

Junmyeon can’t find his wallet. It takes only a couple seconds to remember why. 

“I’m not seeing it,” Chanyeol later says to him over the phone. Minseok decided he wanted the apartment to himself, to have a little silence, so Chanyeol and Junmyeon have gone back to their own places for the night. “Are you sure you dropped it?”

“Positive,” Junmyeon replies. He’s so sure, he’s waiting in his car in the parking lot outside Chanyeol’s apartment. “I had it out when you came in. I must have dropped it, and I was sort of distracted and didn’t pick it up before we left.”

“Why did you even have your wallet out?” Chanyeol huffs. Junmyeon can hear him rustling around his room.

“I was checking—something.”

“I’m seriously not seeing it anywhere.”

“Did you check the floor around your bed?”

“ _Jesus._ Why didn’t I think of that? I’ve just been laying on my bed and trying to look for it on the ceiling. On another thought, maybe it’s in the _sock_ that I’m wearing.”

“Reel in the sarcasm, buddy.”

“I’m not finding it. Unlike some people I know, I keep my place clean. It can’t get lost in a pile of dirty clothes.”

“It has to be.” Junmyeon rubs his temples. 

“Fine. You want to come up and look, be my guest.”

That’s how Junmyeon finds himself in Chanyeol’s room for the second time that day. 

Luckily, no one else is home. The group of kids hovering around the TV must have found something better to do on a Saturday night. Junmyeon tries not to think about being alone with Chanyeol in his room, and sets to work looking around the floor. 

“Checked it,” Chanyeol mumbles from where he’s sitting on his bed, strumming meandering chords on his guitar. Junmyeon moves to his knees to look under the bed. “Checked that, too. And there.”

“I could do without the commentary.”

Chanyeol gives him a stretched grin, more teeth than actual smile. Junmyeon sighs. Trying to retrace his steps—however few—he goes to the dresser. It’s like seeing the picture of Chanyeol and that boy for the first time all over again. He bites down hard on the inside of his cheek.

“What’s he been up to,” Junmyeon casually asks while pointing at the picture, “since you’ve been at Minseok’s this past week? Does he mind you haven’t been around?” Of course he must mind. The other boy is looking at Chanyeol like rainbows come out of his ass. 

And maybe they do. Junmyeon never had a proper inspection.

Junmyeon looks back at Chanyeol, who’s leaning so far over his guitar that he can’t see his face. He says something under his breath. 

“What?”

Chanyeol stops playing his guitar. The notes hang and drop in the air as he looks up with his lips pressed tightly together. 

“We’re not together anymore.”

Just like that, the sharp wire that had been strangling Junmyeon’s spine is cut free. Relief sags through him, more instant and intense than any pill he’s ever popped—shot he’s ever downed. He covers up his long exhalation with an, “Oh?”

Chanyeol’s face is pinched as he looks away, thumb brushing up and down a string. 

“It ended a couple weeks ago,” he gruffly says, “I can’t put away the picture for whatever lame reason. It’s a good one. You probably noticed, but I have a hard time getting rid of some things.”

Junmyeon hadn’t. He looks around the room, trying to see what Chanyeol is hinting at. When he scans the dresser again, he sees it. 

The pink lemonade tin. 

It’s tucked in the corner, some chord books leaning against it. A multitude of images hurricane around him at once. That night on Chanyeol’s birthday, sharing the first scoops at a gas station as the dashboard lights tinted Chanyeol’s face blue. The park in the fall, the crunch of leaves beneath their feet as they walked around the pond. The gusts of winter, huddling close as they sipped out of the bottles. Chanyeol in his beanie, cheeks pink, laughing so hard he spilled on himself. 

He can practically taste the sweetness on his tongue. 

“Chanyeol.” Junmyeon reaches out to touch the tin, like trying to connect with his past self and relive those little moments all over again. 

“I don’t want it to end, either,” Chanyeol quietly says. “But what happened really sucked. I still haven’t—seeing you hurts in really weird ways. I don’t like it. I want it to stop.” 

Junmyeon takes a step toward the bed but it only makes Chanyeol hug his guitar tighter.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.” Chanyeol’s shoulders shift. “I’m sorry, too.” At Junmyeon’s silence, he continues, “For that night, when you called. I shouldn’t have acted so—like a kid. I know I shouldn’t have freaked on you, and I should have answered your calls and texts after that, and I shouldn’t have burst into your apartment unannounced weeks later, expecting…I don’t know. Something like a magical, fairytale ending after the shitty way I acted.”

Junmyeon sits on the edge of the bed. There’s nothing funny about it but he dryly laughs. “We kind of messed this up, didn’t we?”

A snort. Chanyeol dares to look up at him. “I’d say the split of fault is at seventy/thirty.” He gestures to Junmyeon, then himself. 

“ _Maybe_ sixty/forty.”

“You constantly pushed me away.”

“You didn’t understand why I needed some space.”

Chanyeol thinks it over. “I guess I can allow it to be sixty-four/thirty-four.”

“Where’s the other two percent going?”

“Sehun has really been pissing me off lately.”

Somehow, they’re smiling at each other. Relaxing. Then Chanyeol dissolves into his own thoughts again, the corners of his mouth dragging back down. Junmyeon wants to cup his face in his hands. 

“You know why things didn’t work out between me and Kris?” Chanyeol asks. “Because there was something—it was, missing. Pieces that weren’t coming together or some shit. And he was great and treated me really well and—in the end, it was me. I couldn’t let go of you the way I needed to.”

A shiver rolls down Junmyeon’s back as Chanyeol says, “But the thing is, I’d rather try and get over you, have this all be done, than have you in my life again still keeping that _space_ between us. I can’t do that.”

Junmyeon wants to tell him that he doesn’t want the space, either. That having Chanyeol back in his life, however restrained, has hit him bright and raw and it’s unfathomable to imagine going on without him. From the moment he plummeted after seeing him at Minseok’s apartment, to this moment, sitting on his bed and wondering what version of himself would be brave enough to take the guitar from Chanyeol’s hands and fill the space with his own body, Chanyeol has vividly consumed his whole being. 

He can’t seem to get over the last hurdle to say what needs to be said. He only manages, “I won’t.”

It’s so small and quiet that Chanyeol doesn’t sound too interested as he says, “What does that mean?”

“I—I don’t know. I just—can I have a little more time?”

It’s the wrong thing to say. As quick as Chanyeol had opened up, he closes off again. He gets off his bed and onto his hands and knees, searching the floor for what must be his tenth time.

“We need to find your wallet,” Chanyeol grumbles, “the longer you’re in here, the more I feel like my brain stem is twisting around my spinal cord.”

Junmyeon takes a deep breath and follows suit. “Nice practical use of all that studying you’ve been doing for anatomy.”

A dry look is sent his way before Chanyeol peers into the athletic bag at the foot of his bed. He reaches into the open pocket and pulls out Junmyeon’s wallet.

“Found it.”

 

☓

 

A few days later, Chanyeol walks out of the bathroom to see Baekhyun eating cereal on the couch. Both of them have morning classes. Being awake at seven a.m. means that Chanyeol isn’t sure if he’s imagining what he’s seeing or not. 

“What—?” Chanyeol groggily asks. Baekhyun innocently looks up at him, chewing through a mouthful of Fruity Pebbles. 

“Hm?”

“What are you wearing?”

Baekhyun looks down at his outfit. It’s what he usually wears: skinny jeans, a shirt from their homecoming junior year, and a beanie to cover the fact that he hasn’t brushed his hair. 

“What are you talking about?” he asks. Chanyeol points at his chest. “Oh. You mean the jacket.”  
“Yeah. That would be it.”

_Over_ the t-shirt, Baekhyun is wearing a fitted suit jacket. It’s made out of a smooth black fabric with curved lapels. The jacket is incredibly nice, which means it’s incredibly out of place in the apartment. It belongs on the shoulders of some hotshot CEO, not catching drops of Baekhyun’s spilled milk.

“How did—why—”

“Sometimes a guy just wants to dress up and feel good about himself. Can’t I have nice things?” Baekhyun asks with a smug smile.

“No. Not that nice. You look ridiculous.”

“Whatever.” Baekhyun dismissively waves his spoon at Chanyeol. “I’m taking this baby for a test drive today. Don’t pretend like you’re not jealous.”

“I’m not.” Chanyeol is. It’s way too early and he can’t figure out why, but he’s working very hard at not asking Baekhyun if he can try it on. 

“It’s too small for you, you’d wreck it.” Baekhyun reads Chanyeol’s mind, holding his bowl with one hand to possessively slide the other across the fabric. “Don’t give me that look, Chanyeol. It’s not happening.”

Five minutes later, Chanyeol is guffawing to himself, bouncing around the apartment with the suit jacket on. He has to hold his arms straight out and even then, it doesn’t fit across his back, but the only other time he’s worn something so expensive was when he tried on Kris’ Audemars Piguet watch. 

“Careful.” Baekhyun totters after him from room to room. “I had to be very nefarious to get that jacket, don’t ruin my reward.”

Chanyeol holds his phone up to his ear. “Shut up, Baekhyun, I’m on a very important call with the President. Yes Mr. President, of course I can make room in my schedule for a golf outing this Saturday. Ah, yes, I’ll bring the suit jacket…thank you, I _know_ I look great, too.”

“Give it back!” Baekhyun yelps. “You’re doing it all wrong! You don’t wear a fucking suit jacket to go golfing.”

Chanyeol solemnly lowers the phone. “You do when you go with the president.”

 

☓

 

After his classes, just before his coffee stall shift starts, Chanyeol gets a text from Junmyeon.

< _Think we could talk, today_? >

Chanyeol forces himself to put his phone down. He pulls his apron over his head, ties the back, then puts on the ugly black visor he has to wear every shift. Ideally he would have waited twenty minutes before replying, but he still has that crippling weakness for short accountants who look ugly when they get emotional. 

< _I’m about to work_. >

Junmyeon’s reply comes quick. < _For the whole day_? >

< _Yes_. _For forever, actually._ >

< _Sounds like a terrible shift._ >

Chanyeol bites his lip to keep from smiling. 

Since they found Junmyeon’s wallet in his room a week ago, he hasn’t seen Junmyeon that much. They’ve crossed paths at Minseok’s apartment, but whenever Chanyeol arrives, Junmyeon usually leaves short after. 

It doesn’t make sense. After all it took for Chanyeol to open up, feeling like his skin had been peeled back as he admitted he wasn’t over Junmyeon, Junmyeon asked for _more time_. As if the year and a half they were apart wasn’t enough. 

< _Can I come see you_? >

Before Chanyeol can reply, his phone is plucked from his hands by his coworker. 

“Hey, your shift was supposed to start five minutes ago. Clock in, Dumbo, we’re too busy for you to be playing on your phone.”

“I just need to reply to—”

But the senior walks away with his phone, stuffing it into his own pocket. Chanyeol grumbles some very choice words under his breath and follows him to the stall. Damn the fragile pecking order of _State Brews_. 

On quiet nights, Chanyeol mans the stall by himself, but during an afternoon like this when the cafeteria is bustling, it takes four of them to keep up with the lines. He takes his place at the espresso machine and is instantly passed a styrofoam cup with an order written on it. In no time, he’s swept into a hectic pace that gives him no room for thinking about Junmyeon. Almost. Between what he calls Asshole Orders—detailed and picky and needed to be made in more than one breath—and wrapping up their infamous cake pops to-go, he allows himself to wonder what Junmyeon wants to talk about. 

He doesn’t have to wonder long. 

Two hours into his shift, after he leans over the counter to hand a caramel macchiato to a customer, he sees Junmyeon hovering at the end of the stall. He’s wearing a Chelsea shirt and jeans, but the casual clothing does little to blend him into the college crowd. 

It must be an apparition. A mirage.

Junmyeon would laugh at the gaping look of surprise on Chanyeol’s face had he not been desperately clutching to his last bit of courage to come to the cafeteria. Chanyeol’s hand is still extended in mid-air as Junmyeon walks closer, ignoring the complaints from the other people who are waiting in line. 

Junmyeon means to say “ _hi_ ” first, but what comes out is, “I couldn’t wait.”

He couldn’t. Following the seconds Chanyeol told him he didn’t want to continue seeing him if that meant space, Junmyeon has been leaking with the urge to make premature promises. He would say anything just to have more time with the kid: all the more reason to think things through and make sure he could stand behind every word.

“How did you get in here?” 

And now that he’s looking at Chanyeol, taking in his big eyes, goofy ears sticking out from his visor, and the way he still hasn’t lowered his hand, he knows with absolute clarity that he can. He’d been thinking about how brave Minseok was. How he lost everything and it didn’t stop him from chasing the possibility of a new beginning.

“Irrelevant,” Junmyeon says. He had waited at the entrance to the student-only cafeteria and asked a couple kids to let him in using one of their guest meals. It only took him making a fool out of himself three times before someone finally agreed.

“Was talking to me really that important—”

“ _Yes_ ,” Junmyeon solidly says. Half of the line is curiously watching them now, and one of Chanyeol’s coworkers asks him what the holdup is, but Chanyeol is staring at Junmyeon like he can’t hear or see anything else. “It took me all morning—all _week—_ to talk myself into doing this and then you didn’t reply.”

Chanyeol weakly points behind himself. “My…coworker took—”

“I don’t want space.” Junmyeon shoves it from his stomach, from his lungs. His cheeks flush a deep red because he yelled that and now the whole line is watching with interest. He feels like a bowling ball after being chucked down the alley, hurtling toward the pins. “I want you. I’ve always wanted you. Always. I was just too scared to think about what that might mean. The consequences, of wanting someone so much.”

Someone wolf-whistles and Chanyeol’s hand finally drops to his side. He sways in his spot.

“And I fucked _everything_ up but you have to believe me when I say I wasn’t ready. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t be right alongside you from the beginning.” Junmyeon gasps for a breath. “I am now. I know it might be too late and you’ve got so much ahead of you and I’m just an insignificant piece of all the things you really deserve, but I will do whatever it takes for you to come back to me. For you to want me like I want you.”

Silence. Somehow the surrounding students have turned quiet, and all Chanyeol can do is stand there and—

—jerk with a gag. Then another one, his head ducking as he shoves his hand against his mouth. 

“He’s gonna puke!” a very unhelpful voice from the crowd crows, everyone breaking into chatter again. 

One of Chanyeol’s coworkers shoves him out of the stall, hissing, “ _Not here_ , _Dumbo_!”

Chanyeol hustles away from the cafeteria, Junmyeon frantically following right behind him. He ends up losing his stomach in a potted plant just down the main hall, making a couple students sitting in lounge chairs look up with revulsion. 

Junmyeon manages to shuffle a very shaky Chanyeol into a bathroom. It’s empty, the sound of the running faucet the only sound as Chanyeol rinses his mouth with water. He stands pigeon-toed in front of the sink, shoulders slouched as if he can barely hold himself up. 

Junmyeon places his hand on Chanyeol’s shoulder only to have Chanyeol spit out his mouthful of water and sharply drop to a squat. 

“I’m—I’m sorry,” Junmyeon says, pressing his hand against his stomach. Chanyeol folds his arms across his knees and buries his face against his forearms.

“It’s okay.” His words waver. “It’s just that I feel like if you touch me I’m going to break into a million pieces and go flying all over the place.”

“Oh. Listen, Chanyeol—”

“Just give me like, a minute.”

“Okay.”

Junmyeon waits. He takes in Chanyeol’s strong arms, the curve of his back that shifts with every breath. After a week of barely seeing each other, Junmyeon is so close he can feel the warmth off Chanyeol’s skin. 

Eventually, Chanyeol talks. His voice is muffled through his arms.

“You know, I puked when my string first showed up, too.”

“That’s what you said, when we were walking out of LM &C that first day,” Junmyeon softly replies. He squats by Chanyeol, carefully watching him. The kid’s visor has fallen off, revealing damp, matted hair.

“I was so fucking happy. I could feel it—feel it like something sugary and overwhelming and it just _had_ to come out of me.” Chanyeol takes a deep breath. “But now I think it’s because I’m so fucking _scared_.”

“I’m pretty scared, too.”

Chanyeol raises his head, his pink lower lip jutting out. The kid looks so vulnerable, soft, that it takes a lot of self restraint for Junmyeon not to reach out. Chanyeol can only bear to look at Junmyeon for so long and hides his face again.

“Why? Why do you want me when you used to do so much to make it clear you didn’t? If you feel like it’s some debt to the thread—”

“It’s not,” Junmyeon firmly says. “I want to be with you for hundreds of reasons. The thread only gave me a head start.”

“Oh my god,” Chanyeol groans. “This is ridiculous. I think I’m going to die.”

“I don’t know what that means.” Junmyeon nervously laces his hands, his own stomach starting to feel queasy. He’s done what he needed to do. Whatever happens next is up to Chanyeol.

“It means that I am such a goddamn mess right now and I don’t know how to feel or what to say or if I’ll ever be able to get out of this bathroom without having to be wheeled out.”

“What—what do you want me to do?”

Chanyeol takes a deep breath in. He slowly lifts his head, eyes watery, and says, “I want you to tell me that you mean it. That all of this isn’t just because you feel desperate or lonely or guilty for what happened.”

The words come out easy. “I mean it.” He says it again, and then again when Chanyeol hiccups from his breath catching too hard. This time, Chanyeol allows Junmyeon to cup his face, squeezing his eyes shut but not shying away. Junmyeon brushes his thumbs over the soft skin of his cheeks. “Chanyeol, just tell me that there’s a chance we can work on this.”

Silence. All Junmyeon can feel is his heartbeat _galunking_ through his chest.

“There’s a chance.” Junmyeon sighs in relief, but Chanyeol slightly pulls his face away. “But—but I need time.” He realizes what he just said and gives a laugh that borders on maniacal. “God, it must be fucking contagious.”

“I understand,” Junmyeon says. 

“It’s just that you still have this _hold_ on me and I can’t—” Chanyeol’s fingers vehemently curl in the air as he shakes his head. “I can’t tell if the way my chest feels like it’s about to split open is a good thing or a bad thing.”

“I can help you figure that out.”

“Yeah right. You just make things even more confusing with your long eyelashes and endearing lack of housekeeping skills.” There’s finally a tone of playfulness to Chanyeol’s voice; he’s slowly pulling himself back together. 

“I’m going to let you get away with that last one because you just were sick to your stomach and are practically sitting in a fetal position on the floor.”

“Can you blame me? After everything you just said?”

“No. I acted the same, when I figured out I didn’t want to go on without you.” 

Chanyeol’s eyes widen. The words come easy, now that he’s gotten going. Junmyeon knows that tomorrow, maybe even tonight, he’ll look back with mortification about all the _emotional_ things he spewed, but right now Chanyeol is offering him a tentative smile and it feels like his own chest might split open. In a good way.

“I’m still really, really scared,” Chanyeol whispers.

“Me too.”

But the fear is how Junmyeon knows just how important it is. It won’t stop him from moving forward, not anymore. 

 

☓

 

Minseok and Junmyeon do a trade. 

Junmyeon dials the phone for Minseok and listens to it ring, quickly handing it over to him as a soft voice on the other end says, “ _Minseok_?”

“Luhan,” Minseok says, eyes round like coins. “I had a nice time yesterday. Do you have any free time—well, I mean, I know you don’t have _free time_ , but is there—is there any chance you’d like to meet up again? With me?”

Minseok is floundering in so many ways, but Junmyeon can’t help and reach out to poke his cheek at how cute he is when he’s flustered. He receives a curt jab in the gut and a death glare. Minseok decides to finish the rest of his conversation in his room, and then it’s Junmyeon’s turn. 

“This is the right number?” Minseok asks, looking at a piece of paper with an untidy scrawl written across it. 

Junmyeon nods. Confessing to Chanyeol was scary, but this is _terrifying_. “Yeah. I had to give Baekhyun one of my suit jackets for it, so it better be right. Of course he picked the nicest one I owned.”

“You know there were probably other ways to get this number than dealing with bratty teenagers.”

“I haven’t exactly been in my right mind.”

Minseok dials the number. Junmyeon’s lungs suddenly have trouble working like lungs are supposed to work. He can hear the click as the line opens and the, “ _Hello_?” and seriously thinks of running out the door as Minseok shoves the phone in his face. 

Somehow his hand doesn’t shake as he grabs the phone. 

“Hello. I’m not sure if you remember who I am, but this is Kim Junmyeon.”

A pause. Junmyeon is _sweating_. “Of course I do.”

“Mrs. Park.” Junmyeon’s free hand has Minseok’s wrist in a death grip. “I was wondering if you had some time to meet up with me.”

 

☓

 

Mrs. Park is beautiful. She has laugh lines around her mouth and at the corners of her eyes. The woman is so much tinier, docile, than Junmyeon remembers, and when she smiles and thanks the waitress after receiving their coffee, Junmyeon sees so much of Chanyeol in the warm curve her her lips. 

Then Mrs. Park takes a sip of her drink, and her eyes turn to steel as they focus across the table at Junmyeon. Junmyeon grabs his mug to keep his hands from fidgeting. 

“Thank you for meeting with me,” Junmyeon says for the second time since he’s walked into the café. He’d arrived fifteen minutes early to find her already waiting for him at a table.

Mrs. Park nods. Junmyeon feels pinned beneath her glare; that look that all moms seem to have that makes you want to turn into a nondescript puddle. She’s waiting. Sweat pricks the back of Junmyeon’s neck.

“I,” he quickly continues, “I want to apologize, for the way we met before. I remember everything you said to me, with painful detail, and you were right. I knew I should have taken control of the situation, that I was the adult and Chanyeol was in high school, and there was a line that needed to be drawn in our relationship but I made the huge mistake of passing it just minutes before we ran into you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I took advantage of your son by not keeping the right boundaries, even if we are _Akaito_.”

Mrs. Park brushes her fingers down the loose ponytail she’s tied her hair into. She primly says, “I appreciate the apology, though it is coming a bit late.”

Junmyeon gulps his pride down and replies, “It is. I seem to have a lot of…fault. I wish I had a better way to express my regret.”

“Regret that you were caught?”

_Damn_. “No. That I was a complete mess when Chanyeol and I became tied, and I couldn’t pull myself together well enough to keep a healthy relationship with him. I spent so much time not being honest with myself, maybe it wouldn’t have all come to a pinnacle that night at the recital.”

Mrs. Park frowns. “You still shouldn’t have met with him behind our backs. You shouldn’t have led him on when—”

“It was Chanyeol’s decision to not tell you about the thread. He must have had his own reasoning.” Junmyeon tries to say it softly but his throat is tight with nerves. “And we _are_ tied, Mrs. Park. Maybe I did give him too much hope when I was unsure of _everything_ , but you have to admit, being someone’s soulmate is more than a lead-on.”

“Are your parents _Akaito_?” Mrs. Park sharply asks.

“They are. They’re also divorced. Hate each other like it’s an Olympic sport.”

Mrs. Park doesn’t look like she was expecting that. At her momentary surprise, Junmyeon continues, “So I know that just because you’re tied to someone, it doesn’t mean that it’s going to work out. I tried explaining that to Chanyeol over and over again after we first met, but he chose not to listen, for the most part.”

“That’s what boys can be like, in _high school_.”

Junmyeon ignores the jab. “Yes. I know, I’ve learned better since I was his age. But…I needed Chanyeol’s perspective. I needed his help. Maybe I didn’t completely understand it at the time, but in half a year, Chanyeol gave me more than anyone else in my life ever has.” 

“Where are you going with this, Junmyeon?” Mrs. Park asks, burning holes into his face.

Junmyeon has to rush to say it, feeling the same kind of small he was in that hall of the auditorium all those months ago. “I don’t know how much Chanyeol has told you, but since we ended things, we’ve crossed paths again.”

Now Mrs. Park looks down. Her hands seem delicate around the porcelain of her mug. “Chanyeol has mentioned that you have a mutual friend.”

“Mrs. Park. I—I really like your son.” Junmyeon can feel the blush spilling its way beneath the skin of his face, down his neck. “I always have, really. I spent so much time avoiding what our thread meant that I messed everything up. But now that I’ve seen him again, and we’ve talked, I—uh—I realized I made a mistake in letting him go. I want to keep him. In my life. As my _Akaito_.”

Junmyeon can see all of the tendons flexing in Mrs. Park’s hands as she grips the mug tighter. The following silence is frigid. He has to say something to break the chunk of ice that has landed between them. “I want to do this the right way, and be up-front. Chanyeol is setting the pace for this, and it’s possible that after a little bit, he’ll decide that he doesn’t want me in the way that I want him. And that’s okay. If that’s what he wants, I’ll back off.”

“That won’t happen. Chanyeol is infatuated with you.”

“What?” Junmyeon dumbly asks.

Mrs. Park sighs, leaning back in her chair. Her glare has dissolved into a tired regarding. 

“I missed it,” she says, “back when Chanyeol was a senior. I was busy with work, obsessed with doing everything I could to put Yura through school, and upset that my baby was growing up, out of my arms. You met _months_ before we found out and I didn’t even notice that Chanyeol was tied, that he was acting any different.”

“Chanyeol’s gauge is almost always clicked on exuberant. I can see how it would be hard to tell.”

She gives a small smile, at that. “Mothers are supposed to have a sixth sense. I used to get this itch up my back when I was laying in bed at night, and know Chanyeol had gotten up to sneak more junk food into his room. The fact that I—I _missed_ that something important was going on with my son, I felt terrible. Still do.”

Junmyeon doesn’t know what to say. He wasn’t expecting any expression of guilt, or the defeated slump of Mrs. Park’s shoulders. 

“What I _didn’t_ miss,” Mrs. Park carefully says, “was the way he collapsed when things were over between the two of you. You know how Chanyeol has a way of going 100% with whatever he’s doing, I thought that there would be a couple weeks of intense moping and then he’d be okay. It didn’t work out that way.”

“He seems like he’s been doing more than fine without me.”

“He has.” She takes another long sip. “But I have that _itch_ , sometimes when we talk. I could hear it in his voice when he told me you two ended up at Minseok’s. I suppose that’s the entrapment of the _Akaito_.”

“I wouldn’t call in an entrapment.”

“No.” Another sigh. “It’s probably my turn to apologize.”

“You don’t have to, I wanted to talk to you so _I_ —” Junmyeon almost knocks his mug over as he brings up his hands to signal for her to stop.

“I want to. I admit that I projected my own problems with the thread onto Chanyeol. I was hurt that he’d kept something so pivotal away from me, and angry that a thirty-one year-old man had been kissing my _eighteen year-old_ son.” 

Junmyeon gulps.

“I _know_ Chanyeol was technically an adult perfectly able to make his own decision, graduating within a month, but I can’t help the protective mother in me that wants to strangle you for being a part of my baby growing up so fast.” At least Mrs. Park says the last part with a _bit_ of teasing. “I’m sorry, Junmyeon.”

“It’s okay,” Junmyeon mumbles. Even his ears are hot, now. “You had every right.”

“As far as wanting to be with him again.” Mrs. Park looks out the window, the afternoon light streaming through the window and shining against her eyes. “Please…please be good to him.”

“Of course.”

“He’s still so young,” Mrs. Park says, her lips thinning. Junmyeon hates how she sounds almost pleading. “So eager to please and still willing to give everything to people who may not give anything back. Easy for someone else to take advantage of.”

“I think you need to give him a little more credit,” Junmyeon quietly says. “He’s—more resilient, than I remember. I will say that we’ll take this, uh, slow. He’s only a sophomore and I don’t want to get in the way of all the things he has yet to experience.”

“If that’s how you feel, couldn’t you wait until he graduates?”

Junmyeon grimly smiles, shaking his head. “No. I’ve gone long enough without him. He said that he didn’t want to keep seeing me if that meant space between us, and I don’t want that either.”

“You know, you’re only about twenty years younger than me, so don’t think that I wouldn’t be able to kick your ass if needed.” Mrs. Park points a warning finger at him. 

“I don’t doubt that, ma’am,” Junmyeon says. 

She eyes him up and down. “Just so we’re clear. And don’t call me ma’am.”

“Yes ma—Mrs. Park.”

Mrs. Park points to her coffee. “You’re paying for this, right?”

Junmyeon is sweating again. “Of course.”

“Good.” The next sip she takes is insufferably smug.

 

☓

 

 

_Slow_. Slow means Junmyeon taking pizza to Chanyeol’s apartment the night before his next anatomy test. He ends up squished on the couch between Baekhyun and Sehun, flipping through flashcards to quiz Chanyeol between bites. It means Junmyeon running to the pharmacy to buy Peptol Bismol when Chanyeol ends up stress-eating, and later his pained expression as he grips his stomach is too hard to look at. 

Slow means Junmyeon sometimes bringing his laptop and briefcase to a small café by State’s campus. That way he can work on things for his job but still catch glimpses of Chanyeol between classes and his shifts at the stall. Every time Chanyeol enters the building, he glances around and nervously tugs at the straps of his backpack, as if he’s sure that one of these days, Junmyeon isn’t going to be waiting for him. But then his eyes land on Junmyeon and Junmyeon’s stomach swoops at the way Chanyeol grins at him and clomps over. 

Slow means Junmyeon keeping both of his hands on the wheel when he’s driving with Chanyeol in the passenger seat. It’s difficult to curb the possessiveness; convince himself not to reach over and smooth his palm over Chanyeol’s thigh. All he wants to do is _touch_ and Chanyeol appears to only feel comfortable when there’s at least a foot of space between them. 

_Slow, slow, slow_ , Junmyeon repeats it like a mantra in his head. He’ll do whatever it takes, because Chanyeol fits into notches of his life like they’ve been carved there all along. He can’t remember the silence of eating dinner alone when Chanyeol is sitting across from him at the burger joint, pursing his lips to balance a fry-moustache on top of them as his eyes cross with the effort. Junmyeon’ set working hours at home and at the flower shop are punctuated by texts from Chanyeol, whining about dying from boredom in class; sending selfies and hedging for compliments; and the latest, complaining that Baekhyun won’t let him play with the fancy new suit jacket after he tried buttoning it up and the button popped right off.

Junmyeon is called to Chanyeol’s apartment that Saturday on Emergency Button Detail. Baekhyun is out at a competition with his a cappella group—“They really fucking suck,” Chanyeol brightly says—so it gives the two them the security of knowing they have time to rifle through his things. They bring the jacket to Chanyeol’s room and lay it across his bed.

“ _Don’t touch this Park Chanyeol, you asshole, ruiner of all things beautiful_ ,” Junmyeon reads from a note that Baekhyun taped to the hanger. He looks up at Chanyeol. “He really likes this thing.”

Chanyeol sheepishly smiles as he takes the tiny sewing kit from Junmyeon’s hand. “I mean, look at it. You think guys like us have ever owned something so nice?”

Junmyeon can’t help but glance at the laptop on Chanyeol’s desk. It looks like one touch could send it splitting down the middle.

“I mean,” Chanyeol continues, “I don’t know where he got it, or if it’s actually some knockoff, but you should have seen his face when the button ripped and went flying. It was like I tore his nose from his face, instead.”

“It’s okay, we’re going to fix it,” Junmyeon soothes, watching as Chanyeol struggles to open up the plastic container with his thick fingers. They’re calloused from playing guitar, the nails cut short. His palms are wide and square and Junmyeon audibly gulps when he thinks of how they’d feel smoothing across his chest, gripping onto his hips, twisting on the downstroke on his—

There’s a _click_ and the contents of the sewing kit explode from the container. 

“Oops, sorry,” Chanyeol says, reading the strange look on Junmyeon’s face as dismay from his klutziness. He manages to accidentally prick himself on two different needles as he picks up. Junmyeon ends up shooing his hands away, murmuring about not trusting Chanyeol with pointy objects as he puts away the mess of thread. 

“You swear you know how to do this?” Chanyeol nervously asks when Junmyeon has poked a black thread through the head of a needle. Junmyeon is still too embarrassed to meet his eye from thinking about all the other things he wants to be doing on this bed.

“I understand your worry, since sewing a button back on is just a level below rocket science.”

“It’s just—I don’t—I want it to be perfect.”

Junmyeon carefully lines up the button where he can see the holes from its former spot. Baekhyun and Chanyeol may go at each other like fussy adolescent boys sometimes, but always come to a screeching halt at any sign of truly upsetting each other. “It will be.”

As Junmyeon sews, Chanyeol’s eyes drift. Junmyeon doesn’t gel his hair near as much as he used to, and Chanyeol likes the way it fluffs and hangs from his forehead as he’s bent over the jacket. His eyes are sharp with focus, the same look he gets when he’s doing something for work or checking himself in a mirror, trying to press down errant hairs.

There’s a scar on Junmyeon's nose, right toward the top where the bridge meets his eyebrow. It slices toward his right eye, the length of a fingernail. A long time ago, Junmyeon had told him it was from colliding bikes with his friend when he was six. They both went flying and in the tumble his own bike had crashed against his face and split it open.

“Everything okay?” Junmyeon asks. 

Chanyeol hadn’t noticed him stop sewing. He nods, bites his lip, then says, “Can I—maybe—” and his hand is moving on its own volition before he can piece together a proper sentence.

When he first heard the story, he had to restrain himself from trying to poke at it. But now, Junmyeon _wants_ him. Junmyeon looks at him in a way that turns his insides gooey. Junmyeon is always sitting there, waiting for him at the café, and smiles that pretty smile when he sees him come in. It could be a false sense of security, but Chanyeol decides that right now, it’s okay.

Once Junmyeon figures out what Chanyeol’s doing, he remains still. Chanyeol lightly presses the tip of his finger against the indent, tracing it from one end to the other. 

“I like this,” Chanyeol quietly says. 

Junmyeon’s breath bounces against his palm as he asks, “Why?”

Chanyeol shrugs, pulls his hand back. He can still feel the warmth of Junmyeon’s skin against his fingertip. “I don’t know. It’s cool. It’s a part of you.”

For a moment, Junmyeon turns pensive. He touches the scar, then says, “Hey, I wasn’t going to say anything, but, do you remember what tomorrow is?”

Chanyeol thinks about teasing, not giving in so easy, but it doesn’t feel right.

“Yeah. Two years.”

“Right.” Junmyeon presses his lips together and goes back to work sewing, his movements a little less coordinated. “Two years ago, our thread showed up. And I know that we’re not really—that we’re working through things, so it’s not like some golden anniversary or anything but—uh—I thought that maybe—”

Chanyeol tries not to enjoy how flustered Junmyeon is becoming, bit by bit. “What?”

Junmyeon sighs, his hands flopping to where the jacket is laid across his lap. 

“Want to go to the park?”

 

☓

 

Against all logic, Junmyeon’s whole body breaks into tingles as he feels Chanyeol’s fingers searching for his hand, then wrapping around his palm. Junmyeon strains to clench his jaw, refusing to react like some dopey adolescent who has never held hands before.

“Is this okay?” Chanyeol’s voice is so much smaller than usual.

Junmyeon squeezes his hand in reply. He looks at Chanyeol out of the corner of his eye, and at least he can see that his cheeks and ears are rosy.

They walk down the path of the park. It’s the same route they’d taken almost one hundred times before. The pond reflects the smoggy sky, sounds of traffic are muffled by the trees, but something about it is brand new. Junmyeon’s heart feels light, which is difficult to understand, because it’s full; like a bowl in his chest that catches and carries everything Chanyeol says and does, sloshing over its sides.

There’s nothing better than the cold bite of the wind, clashing with the warmth of Chanyeol’s hand in his. 

Around the third lap, after shyly reminiscing about how two years ago, Junmyeon tried to send Chanyeol away with a wad of cash, and how Chanyeol’s face was bruised for the next month, Junmyeon asks, “Any plans for your birthday?” It’s in two weeks.

“Yeah, we’re going paintballing. Tradition.”

“Right, I forgot you guys did that.”

“You’re really going to like it.”

Junmyeon stops, making Chanyeol curiously look back at him. “Wait, I’m going, too?”  
“I said ‘we,’ didn’t I?” Chanyeol tugs him forward, setting them in motion again. 

“Maybe that wouldn’t be such a good idea.” Junmyeon cringes, sniffing against the way the cold air snaps at his nose. “I’m not sure I like the thought of being in an arena with your best friends, all of them carrying guns. If Sehun’s any barometer of how pissed at me they still are, I don’t think I’m going to be up for it.”

“So what? Maybe shooting you repeatedly will make them feel better.”

Junmyeon sighs. “Think it’ll earn me a _little_ bit of forgiveness?” He’s tired of the glares Baekhyun sends him when he’s over helping Chanyeol with homework, and the childish jabs Sehun sneaks in as much as he can until Chanyeol threatens to massacre his stuffed animals.

“Maybe a little. Jongin might get lost in the heat of the moment and try ripping your head off, but other than that, you’ll be fine.”

“Then you should probably put me on Jongin’s team.”

This time, Chanyeol stops. Seriously thinks it over. “That probably wouldn’t make much of a difference.” At Junmyeon’s wide eyes, he continues, “But don’t worry. I’m basically Rambo. I’ll put you on my team and protect my sweet, unathletic, vulnerable, pathetic _Akaito_.”

Junmyeon would let go of Chanyeol’s hand as a punishment had he not been enjoying it a ridiculous amount. Instead he narrows his eyes and nudges Chanyeol with his sharp hip. 

“Maybe I shouldn’t be on your team. That way I can make you eat every little insulting adverb you just said.”

 

☓

 

“My poor, vulnerable, pathetic, unathletic _Akaito_ ,” Chanyeol coos, leaning over Junmyeon where he’s splayed across the forest floor. Junmyeon considers raising his paintball gun and shooting Chanyeol in the throat. 

He’s thoroughly out of breath. Thoroughly pissed. Thoroughly embarrassed.

“How the hell are you still alive?” Junmyeon pants, his own full-headed helmet doing nothing to muffle the annoyance in his voice. “I thought I had you before they rained paintballs on me.” He’d been crouched behind a stack of old tires, watching Chanyeol gracelessly lope between the trees. Junmyeon had timed his shot just right and yet—

Chanyeol shrugs, his bulky protective gear creaking with the movement. “I ran into a tree.”

Junmyeon can still hear Baekhyun and Sehun cackling from behind a copse of trees. It was their combined efforts that outed Junmyeon, who thought that the barrage of shooting was a bit of an overkill. His whole torso is dripping with blue paint—the opposing team’s color—because apparently one shot wasn’t enough. Or twelve.

Junmyeon creakily rises to a sitting position. He works out every morning, arms and abs and ass, but all of that is meaningless in the mysterious paintball arena, where guys like Is-He-Half-Giraffe-Or-Is-He-Just-Drunk Chanyeol succeed. It’s some sort of twilight zone; short-stack Kyungsoo outed Minseok in the first thirty seconds, and Minseok used to play for his university’s soccer team. 

Although, Junmyeon doesn’t know if it has anything to do with the strange effect of the arena or the fact that Minseok really sucks at things like this. All the boys had teased him as they suited up, going on about little pigtailed girls obliterating him in laser tag. Minseok took it all with quiet patience. Besides, he probably doesn’t care that much. Junmyeon bets that when he gets to the shed where all the outed players go, he’ll find Minseok texting, a big, gooey smile on his face that’s reserved for Luhan.

Chanyeol offers a hand, which Junmyeon begrudgingly takes. He allows Chanyeol to brush the dried pine needles and crunched leaves from his back. “How many rounds of this do you guys normally do?”

“Four or five, depending on how busy the arena is.” 

Junmyeon holds back a groan. Five more rounds of being unmercifully picked off by the opposing team. At least Chanyeol is happy. Junmyeon can’t see his expression but he can _feel_ the kid’s smile. When he’d picked up the boys from State this morning, Chanyeol’s excitement had been palpable and filled the car, forcing Junmyeon to breathe it in. 

“You know,” Junmyeon says, a small idea blossoming, “I _did_ get you a present for your birthday.”

Chanyeol’s hand pauses on his back. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I kind of thought that you and I could leave a little earlier. Celebrate together. Alone.”

It’s too easy.

“Two more rounds, then we’ll go.” Chanyeol’s voice cracks but he smacks Junmyeon’s ass then bolts away before Junmyeon can take a swipe at him. He calls over his shoulder, “And you better watch out next time, looks like Jongin has it in for you, too.”

“What?” Junmyeon asks, but Chanyeol has already disappeared into the trees. He takes off his helmet to peer over his shoulder, and finds a smattering of red paint down the side of his back. Red. _Red_. His own team. “Fucking Jongin.”

By the time the third round is over, blue paint has somehow seeped past all of Junmyeon’s protective gear and is soaked into his shirt and jeans. As they turn in their helmets and guns, Jongin and Sehun are already whining about Chanyeol cutting out early. 

“Dicks before chicks,” Jongin grumbles.

“That really doesn’t work here,” Baekhyun says, pointing at Junmyeon’s crotch. “May I bring attention to exhibit one: dick.” Minseok gently grabs Baekhyun’s hand and lowers it. 

Jongin gives Junmyeon a wicked grin. “I’m still not convinced. But I mean, this could all be solved if—” Minseok not-so-gently whacks the back of Jongin’s head.

As the boys try and figure out a proper rhyme to match some form of male genitalia to _Akaito_ , Junmyeon notices Chanyeol is uncharacteristically quiet. He used to jump right in when the topic drifted anywhere close to Junmyeon’s dick, but right now he’s placing his helmet on the shelf and ruffling his hair, pointedly ignoring them. 

Around the time _cockaito before Akaito_ is thrown into the mix, Junmyeon grabs Chanyeol’s wrist to coax him out of the room. Boos and whistles and someone yelling something about a _birthday suit_ follow them through the open doorway.

“You okay?” Junmyeon asks once the two of them are in his car, pulling away from the arena.

Chanyeol had been looking out the window, twisting his fingers together, and jumps in his seat. “What? Yeah. I’m good.”

“We didn’t have to leave,” Junmyeon says, glancing over at him. Was he reading this wrong? He thought the ass-slap earlier meant Chanyeol was excited about the prospect of the two of them being alone. “It’s _your_ birthday, if you wanted to go for a couple more rounds, then—”

“No, no it’s all good. I wanted to end it at the last round so we could…leave.”

“Okay,” Junmyeon carefully replies. 

“Where are we going, anyway?” Chanyeol fiddles with his hat, constantly taking it off, brushing his fingers through his hair, then placing it on backwards. Over and over again. 

“My apartment.”

“Oh. Right. Of course.” 

Junmyeon glances at him. “Seriously, is something wrong?”

“I just—” Chanyeol’s whole face scrunches up, lips pursed, before it erupts out of him, “I don’t think we should go back to your apartment I know I joke about it a lot but I’m still really nervous around you and maybe we should just go back to the park or something because as much as I really like you I don’t think I’m ready to—”

“ _Jesus_.” Junmyeon switches to the right lane then carefully pulls over to the side of the road. “Hold on, what?”

Chanyeol takes a deep breath and forces himself to look at Junmyeon. “I mean, I’m not like, a prude, definitely not a virgin. Kris and I did plenty of—”

“Okay okay, I’m going to need you to never mention Kris again,” Junmyeon interjects, bristling, “But what does not being a virgin have to do with—oh.” He can hear the way he said _alone_ earlier, and suddenly understands how Chanyeol thought that was his best lead-in to sex. 

“I know it’s stupid, but I—I’m really confused. Because fuck, I _want_ to go to your place and—” He heavily gulps. “But I think that right now—”

“Chanyeol.” Junmyeon is caught between laughing and groaning. Poor kid. “I need to go back to my apartment to get a change of clothes and your present. Not to lure you into my sex dungeon.”

“ _Oh_.” Chanyeol flushes, half-apologetic and half-mortified. “Oh. My god. Can we, uh, just forget everything I said?”

“Sure.” Junmyeon can’t help it, he reaches across the center console and pulls Chanyeol’s fidgety hands apart, lacing their fingers together. “Whatever you want, okay?” It’s hard to repress a smile as he continues, “I’m glad that you said something. I meant it when I said you were going to set the pace.”

At least Chanyeol relaxes, Junmyeon’s thumb brushing across the back of his hand. Chanyeol sounds slightly better as he says, “I mean, I don’t want to completely rule out the sex dungeon.”

“We can take it in small steps. Sex couch. Sex closet. _Then_ Sex dungeon.”

Chanyeol’s replying laughter is a little breathy. “Ha. Yeah. Sex _car_.”

The air between them suddenly shifts. The car feels very, very small, so Junmyeon lets go of Chanyeol’s hand. He focuses on pulling back onto the road so he’s not tempted to kiss a very enticing yet very vulnerable Chanyeol. 

_Slow_ , he thinks. Chanyeol ends up waiting in the car as Junmyeon goes inside his apartment to change and grab the present. He puts the wrapped box into a bag so Chanyeol can’t see its shape as he throws it into the back seat. 

The two of them end up eating at Chanyeol’s favorite Thai & Myanmar place, stuffing themselves until they’re nauseous then going out for ice cream. An indie art museum downtown is playing _Casablanca,_ and Junmyeon sits next to Chanyeol in its dusty basement theater, watching him instead of the film as Chanyeol mouths along to the lines. After the movie, they walk around the rest of the museum, shoulders and hands brushing as they lean against each other from laughing at their own interpretations of the trippy artwork. They get shushed more than once, and maybe at one point in his life that would have embarrassed Junmyeon, but Chanyeol’s eyes are crinkling shut with how hard he’s smiling and somehow that makes it okay.

By the time they’re walking back to Junmyeon’s car, the sun has set. Chanyeol is so comfortable that he slides an arm around Junmyeon’s slight shoulders, pulling him close against his side. His _Akaito_ is so perfectly petite, but there’s strength in the way he wraps an arm around Chanyeol’s waist. How can something so simple feel so perfectly gratifying?

“What next?” Chanyeol asks. 

“We go for a drive,” Junmyeon replies. 

“Where?”

“Nowhere special.”

Twenty minutes later, Junmyeon’s car is parked at the gas station down the street from Yura’s old apartment. _The_ gas station. Chanyeol watches in amazement as Junmyeon abashedly hooks up his phone to the car’s stereo, Radiohead coming through the speakers.

“Wow.” Chanyeol tries to sound joking to cover up how he can feel his heartbeat between his ears. “When did you get all sentimental on me? This doesn’t seem like you.” 

“I’ve always been sentimental,” Junmyeon says, unbuckling himself to reach for the bag in the back seat. And suddenly Chanyeol flashes back to two years ago, looking at the lean stretch of Junmyeon’s neck and itching to reach out and _touch_. “I’ve just been terrible at expressing it.”

“You still have my sweatshirt?” Chanyeol slyly asks. He’s guessing by the way that Junmyeon momentarily freezes that the answer is _yes_. Junmyeon gets a hold on the bag and retrieves it, settling back into his seat. 

Chanyeol pulls a box from the bag, wrapping his hands around it. He doesn’t even need to open the thing, he’s happy enough just knowing that Junmyeon thought of him. It doesn’t occur to him how long he sits there, grinning at the box, until Junmyeon quietly asks, “You going to open it?”

“Just admiring your fancy wrapping job.” It’s terrible, Chanyeol hopes he does none of the wrapping at the flower shop. Chanyeol fits his finger beneath the tape and rips, pressing aside the wrapping paper to find—

“Lorinna’s Pink Lemonade Mix,” Chanyeol reads.

“Is it too cheesy?” Junmyeon anxiously asks, scratching the back of his head. Chanyeol remains silent. “I know there’s still some mix leftover in the other one I gave you but I was going for something metaphorical, you know? Is that dumb?” Chanyeol blinks at him, mouth slightly open. “It’s dumb. I’m sorry. I guess that was from our _before_ and it probably wasn’t the best idea to bring it back. But I mean, I just want you to know that spending those days on the bench with you, those were some of the best days of my life, and things may still be strange between us, but I want to spend lots more days like that with—”

Chanyeol opens the door to Junmyeon’s car, swinging his legs to get out. He jerks once, then blinks dumbly down at his chest as he realizes he’s still buckled in. Junmyeon can only watch as Chanyeol fumbles to unbuckle himself then steps out of the car, shutting the door behind himself. 

He left the lemonade tin on the seat. “Shit,” Junmyeon says to himself, staring morosely at it. “Fuck.”

But when Junmyeon follows him out of the car, apologies piling up in the back of his throat, Chanyeol strides around the hood. 

Accidentally uses a bit too much force when he grabs Junmyeon’s face between his hands with a _clap_. 

And leans down to kiss him. 

Junmyeon is so surprised that he stands there, arms hanging like limp noodles as he goes cross-eyed taking in Chanyeol’s squished-shut eyes and folded brow. Luckily his body catches on before his brain does, thoughts still scattered as his arms wrap around Chanyeol’s waist to tug him close. 

Chanyeol’s hands are so big they cover most of Junmyeon’s face; palms sweaty and pressing just a little too hard. “Oh my god,” he says against Junmyeon’s lips, opening his eyes just enough to look at him wonderingly. “How can I like you _so fucking much_?” Junmyeon can’t reply because then Chanyeol’s lips are moving feverishly against his, slick and warm. It’s almost desperate, how he licks into Junmyeon’s mouth, but Junmyeon finds himself equally as guilty because he’s clinging to Chanyeol like the kid is the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. 

So much time has passed since their last kiss, but the memory of it sings through Junmyeon, pressing down the months between until they’re infinitesimal. The taste of Chanyeol is the same—the feel—so heady that he can’t help but press forward: push Chanyeol until his back is against the car. He pins Chanyeol there with his hips, shifting so his arms slide around Chanyeol’s neck. Chanyeol’s hat falls off his head, but he’s so preoccupied that he doesn’t seem to care about it on the dirty pavement.

Chanyeol finally lets go of his face, fingers tangling in the jacket at Junmyeon’s chest. For being so big and clunky, he’s docile, his head tilting, lips parting at Junmyeon’s every silent request. There’s some kind of hole in Junmyeon’s stomach, a hunger, that keeps him kissing Chanyeol as if he only has a limited amount of time to get his fill. He tries to remember _slow_ , but it blips and fades with every breathy sound Chanyeol makes. 

It’s Chanyeol who pulls away first, mostly out of an utter lack of oxygen. Puffs of their breath mingle and mix between their faces. Junmyeon’s vision is still gauzy around the edges as he notices the shine of snot at one of Chanyeol’s nostrils. The kid’s nose is running from a mixture of the cold November air and such thorough exertion.

Somehow, he’s unbelievably sexy. 

Just as Junmyeon starts digging in his pocket for a tissue—keeping Chanyeol properly pinned—Chanyeol uses his hoodie’s sleeve to wipe it away, snorting violently to suction the snot back in his skull. 

Junmyeon sighs. Yeah, still sexy. He wraps a hand around the nape of Chanyeol’s neck, pulling his head back down so their foreheads gently bump. 

“So you like the present?” Junmyeon asks in a heavy voice. Chanyeol beams. In the cheap light of the gas station, his lips are shiny and bright red, and Junmyeon has the greatest urge to _bite_ them. 

“Yeah, that was kind of the point I was trying to get across. Did I not do a good enough job? Should I try again?”

Junmyeon takes in a deep breath, untangling his arms and sliding his hands down; brushing his fingers over Chanyeol’s big ears, neck, before smoothing them across his wide chest. More than anything, he wants to continue this—wants to throw Chanyeol into the backseat and check sex car off their new list. But in a flash, he remembers how Chanyeol looked when he mentioned stopping by his apartment.

“Maybe we should cut it off here,” Junmyeon quietly says, placing a kiss at the corner of Chanyeol’s mouth. “For tonight.”

Chanyeol groans and pouts, but that’s as far as his argument goes. Junmyeon can’t help but lick Chanyeol’s bottom lip. He’s terribly, _terribly_ close to saying _screw it_ and going in for another kiss, but he finds a small string of self-control and detangles himself until he’s eventually able to take a step back. 

“So since it’s my birthday,” Chanyeol says, keeping a hand gripped onto Junmyeon’s jacket even as he bends over to retrieve his hat. “You’re going to go in there and buy the water and cups, right? We’ve got to crack my new present open.”

Junmyeon takes the hat away from him, reaching up and smoothing down Chanyeol’s wayward hair as the kid leans into his touch. He meant to put the snapback back on Chanyeol, but acting on a whim, he playfully places the hat on his own head. “I guess I could do that, birthday boy.”

Chanyeol gulps, frozen.

“What?” Junmyeon asks. Is Chanyeol really that possessive? Or maybe he sees a stain on it from being on the ground. He makes a move to take it off, but Chanyeol grabs his wrist with one hand, reaching into the pocket of his hoodie with the other. Before Junmyeon can grasp what’s happening, his vision is filled with Chanyeol’s phone, and a blinding flash erupts from it. “ _Jesus_ —”

Then Chanyeol gathers him in his arms with all his strength, and kisses him, spots and sparks playing over his vision. 

 

☓

 

As he lays in bed, Chanyeol is pretty sure that the past day wasn’t real. Parts of the night echo through him: the press of the car against his back; Junmyeon’s late night stubble against his chin; cold hands cupping the back of his neck. He can’t stop poking his lips, thinking _here, here, he kissed me here_ , trailing his finger down his jaw and neck to stir the hot coals left behind by Junmyeon’s touch. It feels like one more blow to stoke the sparks and he’ll burst into flame again. 

Unfortunately, there will be no flame-bursting tonight. Junmyeon dropped him off and walked him to the door of his apartment like a perfect gentleman. They had one more kiss, Chanyeol standing straight just to see if Junmyeon would rise on the balls of his feet to reach. He did. He also complained when Chanyeol wouldn’t stop smiling into their kiss, Junmyeon’s lips hitting teeth. 

“You’re just so _cute_ ,” Chanyeol teased against Junmyeon’s mouth, feeling the smaller man go stiff in his arms but not allowing him to pull away.

“I’m not cute,” Junmyeon had mumbled. “I’m hot.”

Chanyeol would have argued that he was both things, but then he was too busy coaxing Junmyeon’s lips open again with his tongue. Because he _was_ hot, so hot that when Junmyeon had put his snapback on earlier that night, all dark-eyed and breathy, a weight dropped from his stomach to his dick. That may need some further exploring, in the future.

He’s not sure how soon that future is going to come up. Even now, pent up from kissing like horny teenagers—a demographic that Chanyeol left behind since he is now twenty thank you very much—he’s still sort of relieved that the night ended where it did. Which is confusing, with the way his body reacts to Junmyeon. Maybe it’s a trust thing, or maybe it’s because he likes Junmyeon so much it’s actually terrifying, but it’s nice to be able to curl up alone in his bed after feeling like he’s been unzipped, innards there for Junmyeon to see. Touch. Take.

Then again, as his phone vibrates and he sees Junmyeon’s name pop up on the screen with a text, his heart actually _aches_ because his _Akaito_ isn’t next to him. He grins at his screen, rolling to his side and trying to envision Junmyeon laying beside him, bed-headed with a sleepy smile. 

< _By the way, what was that picture all about tonight_? > Junmyeon asks. It’s more than an hour since they parted ways, which means he’s still awake, too, thinking about Chanyeol. His stomach curls with childish pleasure.

< _It’s how I conquer my prey_ > Chanyeol replies, < _Stun them, then attack_. >

< _The method leaves a little to be desired. There’s better ways to incapacitate someone_. >

Chanyeol has to Google “incapacitate” on his phone before texting, < _Like what_? >

Three whole minutes pass, Chanyeol restlessly staring at his screen, before Junmyeon texts, < _When you’re ready, I’ll show you_. >

Chanyeol breaks into hot shivers. Okay. So it’s possible that the future is going to come very, very quickly. 

 

☓

 

Two weeks of finals beat Chanyeol to a pulp. Luckily, it’s not until he has sent in his last essay on Bernini when his laptop sputters to its death. 

“Which means I’m going to have to spend my whole winter break living from one busboy shift to another,” Chanyeol laments. He’s following Junmyeon around the flower shop like a shadow, tugging on the back of Junmyeon’s shirt when he starts paying too much attention to the calla lilies and not enough to him. 

Junmyeon pretends to be preoccupied with spraying some of the rhododendron sprouts, when he’s really just trying to buy himself more time to properly word an offer. 

“Hey, what if—” Junmyeon turns around to see Chanyeol hovering just inches away. Chanyeol places his hands on either side of the table behind Junmyeon, caging him in. He’s still pouting, but there’s a gleam in his eye as Junmyeon hesitates, blinking at Chanyeol’s mouth.

Junmyeon squirts Chanyeol’s face with the water bottle.

“What have I told you a million times before?” Junmyeon flatly says as Chanyeol sputters and takes a step back. “I’m at work. No funny stuff.”

“No one else is here,” Chanyeol complains, using his sweatshirt to wipe his face off. He backs off the topic when Junmyeon threateningly raises the water bottle again. As much crap as Junmyeon gives the kid, he loves having him here. There is something calming, warm, about seeing Chanyeol wandering down the gray stone aisles, leaning curiously close to flowers to prod at their petals with big, careful fingers. It is a _little_ less endearing when Chanyeol creeps through the plants, stalking Junmyeon and narrating his every move like a host of a nature program.

“As I was saying,” Junmyeon says, “I have an extra laptop. I still use the one from LC &M, but Wallace Industries gave me one when I first started. You could have it.”

Chanyeol huffs a laugh until he realizes Junmyeon is serious. His broken computer had been a hand-me-down from Yura, and it cost him a lot of money just to keep the thing working for as long as it did. But there was a certain amount of pride that went into it—the thought of being _given_ a laptop is almost verging on ludicrous. Nothing in his life has ever worked that way. So Chanyeol straightens his shoulders and says, “Thanks, but I can get my own.”

Junmyeon presses, “It’s just gathering dust. Consider it a loan, if you don’t feel okay about taking it.”

Chanyeol studies him. Ever since they met, there’s always been a line he’s drawn between allowing himself to accept Junmyeon’s gifts and protesting some of the bigger handouts. Chanyeol has learned to stop arguing when they go out to eat and Junmyeon pays the bill, but that’s only because Junmyeon’s eyes have an uncanny way of shooting daggers at him if he so much as opens his mouth to protest. 

“A loan?”

“A loan.” Junmyeon nods. “If you’re going to work your ass off at the restaurant, don’t use that money to buy a new computer when I have one you can use for free. Put it towards your rent or textbooks for next semester.”

It takes a little more convincing, and Junmyeon teasingly hooking his fingers in the front pockets of Chanyeol’s jeans to distract him, but Chanyeol eventually agrees. 

“Come by my place around five to pick it up,” Junmyeon says. Just for good measure, he feints spraying Chanyeol in the face again, taking too much pleasure in the way Chanyeol flails to avoid the impending spritz. 

After his shift, when Chanyeol has headed out to do god-knows-what with his friends, Junmyeon goes and buys a new laptop. At least he told half of a truth: Wallace Industries really did give him a fancy computer when he started. Lachowski, Miller  & Co., however, made him return all of the equipment when he quit. Chanyeol doesn’t need to know that.

Later that night, sitting on Junmyeon’s couch, Chanyeol says, “This is way too nice, I can’t even take it out as a loaner.” He has the laptop on his lap, clicking through all of the extra applications that Junmyeon had installed by the tech geek at the store. “I swear I’ll break it or something.”

“You won’t break it,” Junmyeon says from his spot beside him. He’s working on his own laptop, trying to finish up a couple things for Wallace Industries before Monday comes around. The two of them are waiting for their pizza to be delivered; a lazy Saturday night. “You’re always careful when you need to be.”

“Tell that to Baekhyun’s jacket,” Chanyeol grumbles.

“We fixed that, didn’t we? Last thing you told me, he’d forgiven you and taken you off of jacket probation,” Junmyeon softly says, treading carefully. 

Chanyeol doesn’t seem to hear Junmyeon, brow furrowing deeper when he opens a writing program that looks like it _won’t_ crash on him every ten minutes. This is uncharted territory: so simple, but too easy to ruin. He lifts his hands from the laptop, pressing them against his chest and shaking his head at the screen. “I’m sorry. I can’t do it. You were really nice to offer, but I’ll just buy my own. I don’t—”

He stops when Junmyeon takes the laptop from him, carefully placing it beside his on the coffee table. Junmyeon turns on the couch and swings a leg over Chanyeol, shifting until he’s straddling his thighs. As wide as Chanyeol’s eyes are from suddenly having a lapful of _Akaito_ , his hands find Junmyeon’s waist, bracing and warm. 

“If you’re trying to distract me from the laptop,” Chanyeol’s words wobble, “it’s not going to work.”

“No?” Junmyeon lightly asks, raising an eyebrow. As his hands massage from Chanyeol’s shoulders to his chest, Chanyeol nods. Junmyeon has a way of seeping into him, like a slow dissolve of Vicodin that leaves him feeling bubbly and light—if not a little loopy. 

“No, I can’t—um, it’s a problem because—” Junmyeon slowly unzips Chanyeol’s hoodie. “—I can just buy another cheap one.”

“But a cheap computer won’t last like this one will.” Junmyeon’s voice has dropped soothingly low. He reaches up to turn the snapback around on Chanyeol’s head, getting the bill out of the way so he can lean in and brush their lips.

“Uh,” Chanyeol eloquently argues, head filling with air as Junmyeon’s hands slide beneath his hoodie, stroking his sides over the fabric of his shirt. It wouldn’t be so bad if Junmyeon wasn’t wearing that annoying look of confidence, like he’d already won the argument. Even more annoying is that Chanyeol finds Junmyeon’s smirk sexy. “But at least, the uh, cheaper one is replaceable.”

“You won’t break it,” Junmyeon repeats, this time against Chanyeol’s lips. Chanyeol grips tighter, hands roving down to slim hips. He doesn’t bother trying to argue as Junmyeon kisses him, still playing the tease as he pulls away every time Chanyeol tries to deepen it. “I really want you to take the computer.” Chanyeol nudges Junmyeon’s nose with his, asking for another, which he obliges before he says, “Please take it. Tell me you’ll take it.”

Chanyeol lets out a _humph_ , chasing Junmyeon's lips only to have him pull away. Again. “Junmyeon—”

“Tell me you’ll take it.” Junmyeon’s breath is hot against his mouth, and it’s not fair, how easily his blood can be brought to a boil. 

“This is,” Chanyeol manages to slightly gather himself together, “like, kind of unfair.”

Junmyeon chuckles, raising a hand to cup Chanyeol’s chin, stroke his bottom lip with his thumb.

“Would you rather I locked myself alone in my room and made a list of all the reasons why you should take my computer instead of buying a crappy one? Because I just thought you’d enjoy this method more.” Junmyeon makes to get up, rising so his weight is on his knees and shins instead of Chanyeol’s lap, but Chanyeol doesn’t let him go. 

“No no no this is good no lists needed.”

Junmyeon _smirks_ , infuriating man that he is. “Then tell me you’re going to borrow my laptop.”

Chanyeol sighs and tonelessly says, “I’m going to borrow your laptop.”

“Good.” Junmyeon places his hands against the top of Chanyeol’s shoulders, pressing and urging so Chanyeol shifts further down in his seat. Chanyeol is confused until Junmyeon sits back down, their hips aligned.

With Chanyeol slouching, Junmyeon has the height advantage, tilting Chanyeol’s head up with one hand before finally giving him the kiss that he's been craving. Chanyeol enthusiastically wraps his arms around Junmyeon’s waist, crushing him close. The kiss turns heated quickly, both of them already wound up.

These days, this is what it has come down to; getting worked up during long make out sessions, maybe a little below-shirt or over-pants groping action, but one of them usually pulls away before anything too serious happens. Most of the time, it’s Junmyeon, never too hazy-headed to read Chanyeol’s hesitation if he pushes things too far. That gnawing, uneasy feeling of “ _should I or shouldn’t I_ ” that Chanyeol used to experience is cleared away when Junmyeon says something like, “Okay, okay maybe we should go for a walk,” or, “How long has it been since you’ve played Monopoly?”

But then yesterday, when Chanyeol had reached for Junmyeon’s zipper, he hadn’t felt any hesitation. That’s when Junmyeon stopped him, asked, “ _You sure_?” and Chanyeol had nodded so hard he almost head-butted his _Akaito_. He thought that would be the end of it, but then Junmyeon grit his teeth and groaned, “ _Next time, after you’ve had a chance to clear your head and still want to, we will_.”

So tonight, as Junmyeon’s hips undulate against Chanyeol’s, Chanyeol is giddy when he bunches Junmyeon’s white sweater up his torso and Junmyeon doesn’t stop him. Doesn’t pause. Just lifts his arms and allows Chanyeol to pull his sweater and undershirt up, over his head. Static cling tufts his hair and Chanyeol’s heart squeezes. 

Junmyeon goes in for another kiss, but Chanyeol braces a hand against his shoulder, keeping him away so he can take in Junmyeon’s bare torso for the first time. He’s stolen peeks before, the most recent being yesterday when he lifted up Junmyeon’s shirt to look at his six pack. Junmyeon didn’t seem to appreciate Chanyeol exposing him while they waited in line to checkout at the grocery store.

But now Junmyeon isn’t batting Chanyeol’s hands away when his fingers go down to trace the ridges of his muscles, his ribs, his nipples. Chanyeol is fucking _chuffed_ when a visible shiver goes through Junmyeon, a shiver that he returns when Junmyeon looks at him, gaze dripping with something hot and sticky. 

Chanyeol has spent so much time imagining this that it almost doesn’t feel real—doesn’t want to close his eyes in fear that he’s going to open them and he’ll be alone, staring at his ceiling. That old anxiety nestled somewhere beneath his ribcage is still fluttering, weakly, reminding Chanyeol of what happened the last time he let himself believe he could have everything.

“Hey,” Junmyeon lowly says, concern etching across his brow. Junmyeon grabs Chanyeol’s hand, cradling it in his before pressing it against his bare chest. “You okay?”

Chanyeol can feel Junmyeon’s heart pounding beneath his palm. The red of the string looks striking against Junmyeon’s pale skin, their hands clenched tightly together. And somehow that distant fluttering dies down, dissolving into the slow melt that’s stirring in Chanyeol’s gut.

“I’m great.”

Junmyeon relaxes, taking Chanyeol’s hand and dragging it down Junmyeon’s chest; his stomach; his abdomen, before guiding it to cup his growing erection. Junmyeon deliberately cants his hips against Chanyeol’s hand.

Some day, Chanyeol is going to stare at Junmyeon’s flawless body as long as he wants to. He’s going to take his time, pressing against every crevice just to watch the way Junmyeon moves against him, but right now, he can’t help but reel Junmyeon in again, their mouths practically bashing because _Jesus Christ Junmyeon is the hottest thing in the entire world holy fuck_.

Chanyeol’s heartbeat is thudding so hard in his ears that he doesn’t hear the knocking at first. It’s not until the sound of Junmyeon’s off-key doorbell reaches his ears that he realizes their pizza has arrived. 

“Ignore it,” he gruffly says, keeping Junmyeon’s waist firmly in his grip so he can grind against him.

“I’m—kind of really hungry.” Junmyeon grimaces, back arching to match Chanyeol’s roll. “At least let me pay him, then I’ll—then we can—”

They argue back and forth long enough for the delivery man to ring the doorbell again.

“Don’t—” but Junmyeon is already wiggling away. Chanyeol sullenly watches as Junmyeon climbs off him and runs to get his wallet. There are splotches of red on his sides from Chanyeol’s manic grip, but those disappear quickly as Junmyeon pulls his undershirt on.

Junmyeon has all the patience in the world, like some long-distance sex runner. As much as Chanyeol appreciated his self-control when it came to getting back into their relationship, he now feels murderous that Junmyeon was able to extricate himself even when Chanyeol was practically begging him to keep going. 

It’s ridiculous, how once Junmyeon brushes his fingers through his hair and positions himself in his pants, he’s able to open the door and deal with the delivery man like he hadn’t just been kissing and humping his boyfriend’s brains out. Chanyeol is a slab of cooked pasta on the couch, only managing to glare over the top of it as the pizza guy curiously looks into the room. Stupid pizza guy. Ruining everything good in Chanyeol’s life. 

Although, he has to admit, once Junmyeon has shut the door and brought the pizza over to the coffee table, Chanyeol is really, really hungry. His stomach groans, mouth watering even more than it did when he was kissing Junmyeon. 

Junmyeon seems to read that in the dazed way Chanyeol looks between him and the box, terribly conflicted. 

“So, you want to eat now, or should I get back on top of you?” So pragmatic, even when the flush in his face hasn’t died down yet.

“I don’t know,” Chanyeol grumbles.

“I can either take the lid off the pizza box, or I can take off my shirt.”

Chanyeol scrutinizes Junmyeon’s smile. He can’t believe he’s being teased right now.

“Both. I want you to be shirtless, and I’ll use you as my plate.”

Junmyeon laughs, taking the lid off the pizza box and placing it on the coffee table before going to the kitchen to get plates and napkins. “Too dangerous. Sex while eating is probably not the best combination for you.” Chanyeol rolls his eyes, but it feels like a punch to the gut as Junmyeon adds, seemingly innocent and light, “Besides, I can think of better ways to make you choke.”

Chanyeol’s jaw drops, and like Junmyeon has control over some switch inside of him, he’s hot all over again. He knows that Junmyeon meant it in more of a teasing way, but it still makes his cheeks blaze as his mind goes into overdrive imagining what it would be like to pull Junmyeon’s boxers down to his knees. He’s never eaten pizza with a boner before. 

It doesn’t prove to be any different than eating pizza without a boner. Chanyeol eats quickly, fully intending to rip Junmyeon’s pants off as soon as he swallows his last bite. He finishes before Junmyeon, but then the confidence drains out of him every passing second it takes Junmyeon to chew through his last piece. Just as Chanyeol thinks _just fucking suck it up and_ mount _him_ , Junmyeon’s phone buzzes. 

“Crap,” Junmyeon says after reading it, setting his phone down and grabbing his laptop. Junmyeon walks behind the couch, into the dining area. 

“What?”

“A meeting just got moved for work, a week earlier. That means I’m now much, much more behind than I thought I was.” Junmyeon makes room at his small dinner table, accidentally knocking some manilla folders over in the process. 

“Come back,” Chanyeol practically yowls. “Can’t you do that later?” 

He can hear the smile in his voice as Junmyeon gently replies, “No, sweetheart.”

_Sweetheart_. It’s way too sugar-sweet but still makes Chanyeol’s toes curl pleasantly. That’s all it takes. He yields, watching TV and rubbing his overstuffed stomach and listening to Junmyeon type away. 

It doesn’t last long. A little less than an hour later, Junmyeon’s phone vibrates on the coffee table.

Chanyeol lays in wait, tucking his own phone away, feeling delightfully evil. 

Just as Junmyeon gets close enough to the couch, Chanyeol pounces. He grabs Junmyeon and pulls him to the cushions with a muffled, “ _Mmph_.” 

As annoyed as Junmyeon tries to act, he lets Chanyeol arrange him until they’re completely wrapped together against the cushions, Chanyeol’s gangly legs around his. Junmyeon huddles into the warmth of Chanyeol’s chest, can feel every breath he takes from the way Chanyeol has pulled him into a vice grip.

“I need to check my phone,” Junmyeon says, nose brushing Chanyeol’s. “That could be someone from work.”

“Nope.”

“Chanyeol—”

“I was the one who texted you, okay?”

“You scheming—”

“Pay attention to me,” Chanyeol whines. “My winter break just started. I demand it to be filled with as much Kim Junmyeon as possible.”

Junmyeon huffs, but goes lax in Chanyeol’s hold. Huddled against Chanyeol’s warmth at the end of a long day, his stomach brimming with pizza, drowsiness starts to set in.

Junmyeon feels himself start to drift, eyelids feeling heavier and heavier with every blink. 

“Hey.” It’s a low whisper, but pressed this close to Chanyeol, it resonates. Junmyeon opens his eyes and sees large, dark irises. 

“ _Mmmm_?” Junmyeon sleepily hums.

“Don’t fall asleep on me.”

“ _Mmmm_.”

Junmyeon has just closed his eyes again when he feels the plush press of Chanyeol’s lips against his own. He tries not to smile as Chanyeol brushes their lips in a delicate nuzzle. Another press. Another slide. Then Junmyeon can feel a puff of breath across his chin as Chanyeol slightly opens his mouth to catch Junmyeon’s bottom lip in a needier kiss. 

Both of them shift, Junmyeon tilting his head and Chanyeol grabbing Junmyeon’s hip to angle them flush together. They languidly kiss, dissolving into each other’s warmth. Chanyeol breaks into a wide grin, but before Junmyeon can make a noise of discontent, Chanyeol eagerly makes up for it. 

His mouth is more insistent this time, tongue parting Junmyeon’s lips to taste him. Junmyeon curls his hand around the back of Chanyeol’s neck, thumb brushing tiny encouragements against the skin behind Chanyeol’s ear. He wants to spend every day like this, contoured around Chanyeol, who always touches him like it’s a novelty. 

Chanyeol’s grip on his hip tightens, fingers digging in a way that sends Junmyeon’s heart thrumming harder. A reminder of where they left off. The kiss deepens; the garlic and butter and sweetness of Chanyeol on his teeth, his tongue, his cheeks. Soon Chanyeol is panting into his mouth, making little noises in the back of his throat as he tries to find better purchase on Junmyeon. 

_Want_ builds in Junmyeon’s stomach, threading through him. Their first months after becoming tied, there used to be a shadow of shame and uneasiness to wanting Chanyeol like this. He couldn’t think about so much as touching Chanyeol without guilt hammering at the veneer of his heart. But now, the urge to have, to take, is completely unadulterated. The freedom is almost intoxicating. 

He pushes against Chanyeol’s shoulder, using his body weight to roll them until he’s slightly situated on top of him. He slides his thigh between Chanyeol’s, pressing down.

Junmyeon’s mind is free of all thoughts of _slow_ as he slips his fingertips beneath the hem of Chanyeol’s shirt, stroking the skin of his abdomen so delicately, Chanyeol’s muscles twitch in response. Junmyeon moves his hand up, palming Chanyeol’s stomach, then chest, enjoying the feel of his stuttering breaths. 

Bunching up Chanyeol’s t-shirt to reveal his torso bit by bit, Junmyeon brushes his thumb over Chanyeol’s nipple. Chanyeol jerks in response, making Junmyeon chuckle at how _easy_ it is. 

“Don’t,” Chanyeol huffs, biting Junmyeon’s bottom lip in retaliation, “laugh at m—” but his words get caught off into a garbled noise as Junmyeon pinches him, instead. Junmyeon kisses and drags his teeth down Chanyeol’s neck, leaving splotches of red that he licks his tongue over. He finds the sweet spot that makes Chanyeol sharply inhale, and abuses it, Chanyeol’s hands grappling over him, digging into muscle. 

But then Chanyeol seems to remember something and runs his hand down Junmyeon’s back. 

Junmyeon’s “ _shit_ ” is breathed against wet skin as Chanyeol grabs his ass and squeezes. 

Now Chanyeol is chuckling, breathlessly, as Junmyeon’s dick gives a particularly hard throb. 

Shameless, his cheeks a pleasant pink, Chanyeol uses his leverage on Junmyeon’s ass to grind his hips up. He grumbles for Junmyeon to kiss him again. Junmyeon is too happy to oblige as he shifts himself to better align with Chanyeol’s rolling hips. Both of them groan, the denim on denim giving barely enough pleasure. 

Beneath Junmyeon’s palm, Chanyeol’s skin is burning, dewy. He scrapes his fingernails down Chanyeol’s ribs, to the waistband of his pants. Junmyeon dips his fingers down and plays with the elastic of Chanyeol’s underwear. 

“Please,” Chanyeol murmurs, sending a flashy heat through Junmyeon’s veins. Their tongues messily slide, Chanyeol rutting against Junmyeon. “No more—no more teasing. Touch me. You said you would. Yesterday, you—”

It’s too easy to agree. “Okay,” Junmyeon mumbles against Chanyeol’s swollen lips. “Here. I got you.”

Junmyeon shifts to undo the button on Chanyeol’s jeans, drag the zipper down. When he slips his hand past the denim, cupping Chanyeol through his underwear, Chanyeol moans and rises to the touch. He’s so _fucking hot_ , pulsing against Junmyeon.

“ _Easy_ , babe,” Junmyeon says against Chanyeol’s jaw. Junmyeon’s own breathing is shaky as he presses and finds the shape of Chanyeol, teasing as much as he can bear, before reaching inside the slit of Chanyeol’s boxers and pulling him out. Junmyeon’s own dick twitches as he gives an idle tug, reveling in the heaviness against his palm. Junmyeon looks down, eyes taking his _Akaito_ in for the first time, and groans.

Chanyeol is _hard_ , his cock curved prettily, head an angry pink. He’s big, thick.

Junmyeon wants to eat him alive.

“Fuck, the things I want to do to you,” Junmyeon says, feeling Chanyeol jerk in his palm. He runs his thumb along the slit, looking up to see Chanyeol scrunching his nose and dumbfoundedly gazing at Junmyeon like it’s the first time they’ve met. With dark amusement, Junmyeon adds, “You’re so fucking eager. I’ve barely touched you, and look—” Junmyeon squeezes up, making precum bead at the tip.

Chanyeol’s eyes widen, the blush on his face deepening, creeping steadily down his chest. This speechless version of Chanyeol is an interesting one.

After adding a little spit, Junmyeon’s hand works against Chanyeol in long drags. He gives a small flick of his wrist on an upstroke to watch the way Chanyeol’s mouth falls open—tightens his grip to procure a rumbling moan. 

“Junmyeon—if you—I can’t—” Chanyeol gulps, pursing his lips. He closes his eyes, grimacing. 

“So close already?” Junmyeon huskily asks, slowing. “Stay with me, here.”

“I’m _trying_.” A little exasperation has leaked into Chanyeol’s voice, and it makes Junmyeon smile. “You’re just—” Junmyeon circles his fingers along the underside of the sensitive ridge and twists, procuring a gasp from Chanyeol. “Really good at this, _dammit_.”

Chanyeol is holding on to Junmyeon like his life depends on it, his body slowly stiffening with the effort not to come. Junmyeon’s nerves fizzle with his own buildup, even if pressing his erection against Chanyeol’s leg isn’t nearly satisfying. 

Junmyeon plants wet kisses along Chanyeol’s cheek, biting at his lower lip, before slipping his tongue back into Chanyeol’s mouth, licking with every up and down of his hand. Having Chanyeol like this is exhilarating; every movement of his brings a reaction in tenfold.

“Good?” Junmyeon asks when taking a break to add more spit to his hand. Chanyeol’s eyes are still shut, brow furrowed in what looks to be serious concentration. All Chanyeol can do is nod. “Hey. Don’t close your eyes. Look at me.”

Junmyeon’s hand pauses. He plants wet kisses along Chanyeol’s cheek, until Chanyeol bats his eyes open. Chanyeol’s gaze is gauzy, cheeks rosy, and lips redder than they’ve ever been. Junmyeon wants to drag this out; wants to wrap his mouth around Chanyeol’s cock, wants to grab the lube from his bedroom and make good on all those wet dreams he’s been having as of late.

But more than any of that, unable to wait any longer, Junmyeon wants to make Chanyeol come. This isn’t frotting in a dressing room, hidden away and racing blindly toward an unknown end. No fear, or hesitation. Chanyeol’s last orgasm may have come as a surprise, but Junmyeon is determined to craft this one, draw it out and wreck Chanyeol by his own doing.

At the thought, something in Junmyeon’s expression must change, because Chanyeol nervously gulps. 

Junmyeon feels pleasantly evil as he starts a new pace, stroking from base to tip with a grip that has Chanyeol crying out. Only a minute later, Chanyeol shouts an almost panicked, incomprehensible warning.

Junmyeon whispers in Chanyeol’s ear, “Then come. I want to see you come, Chanyeol.”

That does it. Chanyeol’s spine bends, head tilting back to expose his throat as his face scrunches up in a decidedly unattractive way. But it’s beautiful, his cock kicking in Junmyeon’s hand, come spurting and covering his stomach muscles as they twitch with the waves of his orgasm. And the groan he lets out, long and tortured, makes Junmyeon feel precariously close to his own release. 

“Good, Chanyeol,” Junmyeon soothes, stroking him through it until Chanyeol starts to wince. “You’re so good for me.” There’s come on his hand, dotting up Chanyeol’s stomach. Holding his palm up to look at the mess, Junmyeon bows his face to it, licking it off. 

Something pleasantly perverse twists in him as Chanyeol’s half-lidded eyes shoot wide open. “ _Holy shit_.”

“ _Hm_?” Junmyeon hums, leaning in for a kiss just to test his reaction. Chanyeol hesitates at first, but closes in the rest of the gap, pursed-lipped at first then easily relenting as Junmyeon slides his tongue through. Eventually, Chanyeol seems to catch his breath, pulling away from Junmyeon to point an accusing finger in his face. “You’re _dirty_! You— _you_ have like, hidden superpowers or something because that was—fuck, you’re—”

Junmyeon chuckles as Chanyeol continues struggling to string a simple sentence together. But his own dick is still throbbing in his pants. Watching Chanyeol come had ended the last bit of his patience to be touched.

It’s a command, a whisper. “Chanyeol, shut up and undo my pants.”

Chanyeol reacts a bit too enthusiastically and bashes his hand against Junmyeon’s crotch, momentarily killing the mood as until they both break into quiet laughter. Chanyeol mumbles apologies, kissing Junmyeon as his fingers undo the button of his pants. 

Then finally, _finally_ , Chanyeol’s hands are on Junmyeon. 

It’s only been two years coming. 

 

☓

 

Once Junmyeon lets Chanyeol into his pants, it’s hard getting him _out_ of his pants. They can’t be alone for more than ten minutes without Chanyeol’s hand trying to sneak its way past whatever barriers Junmyeon had chosen to wear that day. 

The kid is insatiable. If Junmyeon gets Chanyeol off first, then by the time he comes himself, Chanyeol is already working up another boner. Once he made the mistake of jerking them off together, cocks pressed in a way that made Chanyeol tip over the edge much faster than usual, and Chanyeol’s post-orgasm recovery time was fucking _monumental_ , Junmyeon still trying to recoup as Chanyeol begged him for another round. 

“I’m not in my twenties anymore!” Junmyeon exclaims a week later, Chanyeol’s hand pressed on his chest to keep him from sitting up. He’s sweaty, the buzz from his orgasm still dissipating through his veins. Chanyeol is kneeling between his legs, Junmyeon’s back against the wooden floor of his apartment. “Chanyeol it—” Junmyeon colorfully swears as Chanyeol mouths along his softening dick, wet from Chanyeol’s spit and his own come. “ _Can’t you give me like five fucking minutes_.”

Chanyeol breaks into obnoxious laughter, because they both know Junmyeon’s recovery time is much, much longer than five minutes. Plus, Chanyeol likes making him disgruntled. There is nothing better than his pissed off _Akaito_ ’s retribution. 

“You think that’s funny?” Junmyeon darkly says, tilting his head up to look at Chanyeol.

Works like a charm. 

“Yes.”

Junmyeon’s strength is always surprising. It’s possible that Chanyeol is stronger, but the way Junmyeon moves and pulls at all the right angles usually puts Chanyeol at his mercy. It helps that the ferocity Junmyeon sometimes slips into stuns Chanyeol, like now, when Junmyeon bares his teeth and somehow switches their positions. 

Chanyeol’s back hits the floor, and he yelps as the back of his head bashes against the wood. 

Junmyeon’s eyes remain dark, but he makes a silent apology by tenderly threading his fingers through Chanyeol’s hair at the side of his head. There’s tears drying at the corner of Chanyeol’s eyes, lips puffy from working Junmyeon’s cock over, and the sight of it causes Junmyeon to move on from comforting him to hastily opening Chanyeol’s belt. Junmyeon pulls Chanyeol's jeans down to his thighs without undoing them, restricting his movements. 

Hot breath ghosts through Chanyeol’s underwear as Junmyeon noses along his erection, looking up at Chanyeol through his eyelashes. His voice is deliciously deep as he says, “Will you still think it’s funny when I make you come as many times as I can before I get hard again?”

“I don’t know,” Chanyeol says, betraying his excitement with a smile, “Think you even have the energy for that, old man?”

He _does_ have the energy for that, it turns out. But it’s not really fair, because by the time Junmyeon has painfully coaxed Chanyeol’s dick to harden for the _third time_ in almost forty-five minutes, he swears that Junmyeon had regained his erection by the end of his second orgasm. 

Chanyeol cries and begs and shudders, reduced to a puddle of himself as he warns Junmyeon with a wail of, “ _I’m going to die_ ,” before he reaches his final, dry release. Both of them are completely naked now, and taking pity on him, Junmyeon’s mouth pops off his dick without any teasing, spit smeared around his mouth. He kneels at Chanyeol’s side.

Dazed, Chanyeol looks down at Junmyeon’s cock, so hard it moves with every beat of his heart. It’s smaller than his, but curves at an interesting angle. “You may have to come to me for this last one,” Chanyeol says, pointing to his mouth. “I don’t think I can sit up right now.”

Junmyeon’s eyes narrow. He’s sweaty, skin splotched red, black hair sticking up all over the place from Chanyeol’s constant tugging at it. “Wow. You really know how to talk dirty to me.” He takes in Chanyeol’s boneless body, pride gleaming in his eyes. “It’s okay, though.” Moving to straddle Chanyeol’s legs, Junmyeon leans over him, bracing himself with one hand by Chanyeol’s head and gripping his own cock with the other. The following kiss is sweet, slow, the kind of kiss that makes Chanyeol’s heart swell with something overwhelming, all consuming. 

As Junmyeon’s hand quickens, he stops kissing Chanyeol to press his forehead against Chanyeol’s sweaty shoulder. Chanyeol barely has the energy to rub his hands down Junmyeon’s sides, across his back, grip his ass the way he likes. He knows Junmyeon’s about to come when Junmyeon starts breathing his name.

“Shit,” Junmyeon hisses, raising his head so he can meet Chanyeol’s eye. It always feels like a punch to Chanyeol’s gut when he does this; so intense he has the urge to look away, but it’s impossible to do. And then Junmyeon is moaning, eyebrows furrowed in a delicious expression, and he’s spilling over Chanyeol’s stomach, mixing their come. 

If their positions were switched, Chanyeol would have collapsed against Junmyeon, but Junmyeon rises, eyes taking in every inch of his debauched _Akaito_. Short of breath, he asks, “Still think it’s funny?”

Chanyeol grins. “Hilarious.”

Junmyeon pinches his nipple much harder than warranted. He grimaces as he swings off of Chanyeol, mumbling, “Next time I’ll fuck you, and we’ll see what you have to say then.”

Stiffly, Junmyeon rises and retrieves a wet washcloth, kneeling beside a still-prone Chanyeol to start cleaning him up. He’s so focused on the way their come smears across Chanyeol’s skin that he almost misses the confused expression on Chanyeol’s face. 

“What? Are you okay? Did I—” Junmyeon wonders if he pushed it too far, if he misread any of Chanyeol’s signals. So far Chanyeol seemed to like everything they did—always encouraging and receptive, but what if—

“I’m fine, I’m _great_ ,” Chanyeol hurries to say. “It’s just…you said you were going to fuck me?”

Junmyeon breathes a small sigh of relief, going back to cleaning him up. “Yeah, I mean, if you’re not ready, that’s okay. Or if you don’t think you’ll want to do that kind of stuff—”

“Oh, I’m ready. I’ve been ready. It’s just… _you_ , fuck _me_?”

“That’s what I said.”

Chanyeol suddenly sits up, his spine still jelly as he wavers a bit. “Don’t you mean _I’m_ going to fuck _you_?”

Junmyeon laughs until he realizes Chanyeol is stone dead serious. 

“Wait, what?” 

“I topped with Kris.” Chanyeol forgets their number one golden rule until Junmyeon glares at him in a way that makes him physically flinch. 

“Did Kris just make you come three fucking times in a row?”

“No.” If Chanyeol wasn’t so thoroughly winded, Junmyeon’s jealousy would have roused him up again. There’s something sexy about Junmyeon’s possessiveness. Chanyeol knows he’s not some _thing_ that belongs to anyone, but seeing Junmyeon get so worked up at the thought of anyone else being with him is twistedly pleasing. 

“Then Kris doesn’t exist anymore.” 

“Sorry.” Chanyeol apologetically smiles. As much as he likes spurring Junmyeon on, the topic of Kris isn’t a thorn that he wants to deliberately twist in Junmyeon’s side. “But my point is that I top. Don’t you bottom? You seem like a bottom.”

“How do I seem like a bottom?” Junmyeon asks, annoyed enough from Chanyeol mentioning Kris that he uses Chanyeol’s shirt to dry him off. Chanyeol doesn’t seem to notice.

“You’re tiny. I’m a lot bigger than you.”

“So?” Junmyeon asks. It’s not like he hasn’t enjoyed the random switch, but ever since college, he’s been pretty firm in his tastes. When he’s bottoming, he usually takes a while to get warmed up, and even then, he can’t last for very long until it gets uncomfortable to him.

Besides, Chanyeol has only slept with one person. Junmyeon has slept with…a lot of people. A lot of different ways. Some ways he would preferably not revisit, even in his memories. 

“And I found that vibrator you have in your dresser.”

Junmyeon isn’t even surprised, but he laughs at Chanyeol’s cute, simple mind. “So you saw how slender it was.”

“Well yeah, but—”

“I like the vibrations,” Junmyeon says, “and it has that wicked little curve at the end that gets me just right.”

“ _I_ have a wicked little curve at the end that will get you just right,” Chanyeol says, pointing to his soft dick that now just looks like a ruddy, sad sea creature. Junmyeon fights the urge to roll his eyes. Dumb, naïve college kids. 

“So you’ve never bottomed?” Junmyeon asks. 

“No.”

“Have you ever experimented?”

“With my ass?” Chanyeol says it like it’s absurd. 

“ _Yes_ with your ass. Stop saying like it’s weird when you’re trying to put your dick in _my_ ass.”

Chanyeol shakes his head. “I’m telling you, I’m a top. I’m a top I’m a top I’m a top.”

Junmyeon goes quiet. Is this really how it’s supposed to work? He thought _Akaito_ were supposed to be attuned to each other on these sorts of things. The bond of a soul mate may not be perfect, but sexual compatibility seems like a pretty big deal when two people become tied. At all points so far they were _definitely_ sexually compatible. 

Maybe he’ll eventually come to build up his stamina bottoming? It’s…possible. Junmyeon doubtfully eyes Chanyeol’s dick. It’s just so _big_. And he is so _not_. Every now and then he might enjoy the switch-up, but he’d be ruined for a day or two after every time they had sex. 

“Why are you having a staring contest with the Chanaconda?” 

“ _I swear to god_ stop coming up with nicknames for your penis.”

“But isn’t that a good one?” Chanyeol proudly asks. 

Junmyeon ignores him altogether. “Okay, listen. I’ll let you top—” Chanyeol scoffs at the word “ _let_.” “—but before that, you have to bottom for me once.” Maybe then it’ll work out. He knows Chanyeol would never do anything to purposefully hurt him, but the kid’s bullheadedness from his lack of experience may turn out to be a problem. 

“No way.”

“I am not letting that _thing_ anywhere near my ass unless you let me show you the proper way I like things done.” Calling it a “ _thing_ ” in such a distasteful voice does not match how eagerly Junmyeon was lapping at it just fifteen minutes ago. 

The playfulness drops from Chanyeol’s face. “Do you not trust me?”

“I trust you, I do.” Junmyeon reaches up to smooth Chanyeol’s damp bangs away from his forehead. “I just—it’s been a long time since I’ve bottomed for anyone. Since you’ve never done it before, do it this once for me, and then I’ll let you fuck my brains out with…the…”

Chanyeol wraps his big, warm hand around Junmyeon’s wrist, smiling. “Say it.”

“No. I changed my mind.”

“Say it, and I’ll do it.”

Junmyeon’s nose scrunches in distaste, but the fight in him quickly dies down. “I’ll let you fuck my brains out with the Chanaconda.”

As apprehensive as Chanyeol feels about it, he nods his head. “Okay, deal.”

Three days later, Chanyeol plops down beside Baekhyun on the couch in their apartment, slightly wincing. Half an hour ago, he’d gotten home from spending the night at Junmyeon’s. There’s a little time left to hang out with Baekhyun before Chanyeol has to go to work. 

“Well, Baek,” he announces with an air of regret, “turns out I like to bottom.”

“ _Jesus_ Chanyeol—” Baekhyun chokes on his fruit rollup. 

“Yep. I like it in the ass.” Chanyeol nods, all Baekhyun can do is gag and flail. “Who would have thought, you know? Isn’t that weird? This whole time I thought it was so simple. Don’t get me wrong, I can’t wait to give it to Junmyeon, but with Kris, it wasn’t even as issue. I just fucked him and— _ouch_!”

Baekhyun has resorted to whacking Chanyeol in the chest with his palm, struggling to swallow so he can finally say, “SHUT UP. Stop. Never speak again.”

“But—”

“No! New apartment rule, more important than no fucking on the couch, is that you are never allowed to talk about anything ever and need to shut up eternally.”

Chanyeol goes silent, blinking at Baekhyun with his big eyes. Satisfied enough, Baekhyun shakes his head, muttering to himself as he turns to the TV again. 

It lasts for two whole minutes. 

“My ass hurts,” Chanyeol says. 

Baekhyun screeches and goes for Chanyeol’s throat. 

 

☓

 

It’s snowing. Junmyeon’s small form is easy for Chanyeol to hold close, shield from the icy wind.

“You shouldn’t go,” Chanyeol petulantly says.

“Chanyeol.” Junmyeon’s voice is muffled against Chanyeol’s coat. He can hear the crowds of holiday travelers walking around them, herding toward the entrance of the airport. The air is thick with the taste of exhaust from cars coming and going through the pickup zone. Every now and then someone accidentally jostles against him as they pass, but Junmyeon is tented by Chanyeol and his coat and can’t see much of anything. “I have to go. I bought the ticket months ago.”

“All this snow.” Chanyeol grips Junmyeon tighter. “It’s too dangerous. The pilot won’t be able to see and the plane will be unsteady and it’ll slip when you take off.”

Junmyeon has to take a couple deep breaths to remind himself to be patient. The only reason he’s allowing Chanyeol to be so clingy is because of the overwhelming guilt at having to leave him behind for a week during Christmas.

“I don’t think you understand how planes work.”

“I do. I am a plane scientist. And I say the snow is too dangerous to fly through.”

“Babe,” Junmyeon calmly says, “the only thing that’s dangerous right now is how you’re about to smother me to death.”

Chanyeol’s arms relax, but only a fraction. Junmyeon feels him place his face against the top of his head, burying it against his beanie. It’s so sweet that Junmyeon can’t find it within himself to be annoyed. He actually starts to think that it won’t be the end of the world if he “accidentally” misses his flight. It’s near-impossible to book last-minute flights out to the east coast this close to Christmas. He could spend the holiday with his _Akaito_ —the city may be grungy and freezing, but at least Chanyeol is here.

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry.” Chanyeol’s sudden relent startles Junmyeon. He looks up, forgetting that Chanyeol’s face had been pressed against his head, and accidentally foreheads him in the nose. Chanyeol’s face scrunches up but he chuckles when Junmyeon tip-toes up to give him an apologetic kiss on his bottom lip. “You need to go. I know. You barely see your parents as it is. I just—I can’t help but feel selfish.”

He’s right. Junmyeon internally sighs. As complicated as his relationship with his mother and father is, he loves them. Against all logic, he _wants_ to see them. He just doesn’t want to leave Chanyeol. Before he can realize what’s coming out of his mouth, he says, “Next time. I’ll bring you next time.”

Chanyeol’s nose and cheeks are red from standing in the cold. His eyes widen theatrically.

“So like, spring break?”

“Uh—”

“You’ll take me _to the ocean for spring break_?” 

“You’re yelling in my face.”

“Sorry.” Chanyeol sheepishly smiles, wiggling Junmyeon back and forth in his arms like a rag doll.

“But wouldn’t you want to go somewhere with your friends for spring break?”

“Well.” Chanyeol pauses to think, his puffs of breath getting stuck in his thick scarf as he looks down at Junmyeon. “Yeah, but I mean, I don’t want to miss the opportunity to—”

“There will be plenty more opportunities,” Junmyeon says. “Maybe we’ll just start with a weekend when February is over, then if you like it, we’ll go again as soon as you finish your exams next semester.”

Chanyeol blinks. He still hasn’t gotten used to the idea that this thing with Junmyeon has taken on a more permanent purpose. Chanyeol _has_ him, and that is as unreal as it is intimidating. Not only will there be one trip to the coast, there will be _multiple_ , and Junmyeon will be there during all of them. His _Akaito_. Nothing is forever, he knows that. But he’ll take whatever he can as long as Junmyeon is by his side. 

Junmyeon continues, “I want you to spend your spring break with your friends. Last I knew, Sehun and Jongin were trying to get everyone to go south.”

“What if you came with us?” Chanyeol asks, to which Junmyeon’s expression flattens.

“Park Chanyeol, I am over thirty years old. I do not _do_ spring break partying anymore. My wet t-shirt contest days are behind me.”

Chanyeol’s eyebrows raise so fast they look like they’re about to shoot off his forehead. “Wet t-shirt concert?”

Junmyeon gives a solemn nod. “I placed third one year, but that was because I was faded three different ways and I took off my pants. The only reason I can remember that is because my friends have picture proof stored in their phones.”

“Who _are_ you? And _how_ can I get those pictures?” Chanyeol asks, to which Junmyeon shrugs. Then, he seems to remember something.

“Not like I want you to get faded three different ways during spring break. Or overdo anything. And I mean, if you have to take your pants off, just don’t let anyone else _touch_ you, okay? I want you to have fun with your friends, make memories with them.”

“No problem.” It’s amazing how they still have so much to learn about each other. Some of that will only come when Chanyeol can finally get to Junmyeon’s hometown: see Junmyeon’s old school, his favorite places, meet his parents. Junmyeon still doesn’t talk much about them, but at least now Chanyeol knows that some things just take time with him. He’ll talk when he wants to. 

Junmyeon struggles to bring his arms up between his and Chanyeol’s bodies, their coats ruffling and making noise as he moves. Junmyeon holds Chanyeol’s face in his hands, brushing a midden-clad thumb over his cheek. “But now I have to go. We can talk more about this later.”

Chanyeol dutifully nods. The snow whirls around the entrance with a gust of wind that makes both of them cringe.

“Right.” But Chanyeol doesn’t make a move to let go. He closes his eyes, leaning into Junmyeon’s touch. “Please be safe. You’re so tiny—” Junmyeon makes a disapproving grunt. “—and easy for people to push around, but just use your sharp little elbows if it gets too crowded in there. And make sure you drink a lot of water. I heard that flying dehydrates people. And I’ve never flown before so I don’t know how it works, but before you take off, can you double-check with the captain and make sure it’s okay to fly?”

Chanyeol has never been in a plane before, but he’d googled everything he could about airplanes a couple days ago when the reality of Junmyeon leaving loomed closer. He didn’t get it, how do planes _fly_? How is that big heap of metal going to soar through the sky with his precious _Akaito_ inside of it? He knows that if he said any of that to Junmyeon, _he’d_ be on the receiving end of his “sharp little elbows.”

Instead of an answer, Junmyeon uses his grip to pull Chanyeol down, kissing him. The warmth of Chanyeol’s mouth, his skin, his tongue, glows through Junmyeon’s body. He can barely feel the cold anymore, the chaos around them dissolving into white noise. 

Oh God, Junmyeon doesn’t want to go. His chest aches—he can’t do this, _why_ can’t he do this? He’s said an endless amount of goodbyes in his lifetime, a great percentage of those were much longer, more indefinite than this. A week. That’s it. There’s something embarrassingly childish about the potency of Junmyeon’s desperation to not leave his boyfriend behind. 

But he has to. He has to catch his plane, go meet his family, his close friends. Plus Minseok is still circling his car around the temporary parking, probably unable to find an empty spot. He was so gracious in agreeing to take Junmyeon and Chanyeol to the airport, especially with the hellish traffic.

So with great pain, Junmyeon pries Chanyeol’s arms off, peppering kisses on his cheeks and jaw to soothe him. Their hands are gripped between them. 

“Text me a million times,” Chanyeol says, walking with Junmyeon as they join the flow of the crowd. “And I don’t mean that in like, an exaggerated way. I mean that you have to text me one million times. I will be counting.”

“I will.”

“And Skype. And facetime. And you need to send me three selfies a day.”

“Doesn’t that seem a little—” Junmyeon swallows his protest when he can see the sad puppy look across Chanyeol’s face. His bottom bubblegum lip is all pouty. Junmyeon resists the need to kiss him again. “Okay. I will.”

There’s one more hug once they’re inside. One more kiss. Then Chanyeol hands Junmyeon’s carry-on over to him and his face scrunches up. 

“How dumb is this?” Chanyeol says over the din of the airport’s security check. “You’re still right in front of me and I miss you already.”

Junmyeon wants to tell him it’s not dumb, he feels the same way. But instead he scrunches his face like Chanyeol had. “Super dumb.”

Chanyeol’s eyes narrow. “Leave.”

They softly laugh, and then Junmyeon is swept away into endless lines, Chanyeol watching near the doors until his _Akaito_ disappears from his sight.

 

☓

 

Minseok sighs in his car, gripping the wheel.

“Problem?” Luhan softly asks from the passenger’s seat. His voice still makes goosebumps break over Minseok’s skin. It doesn’t help that Luhan is over-the-top pretty. His eyes are big and liquid brown, curiously peering at him from beneath the brim of his plaid bomber hat. 

“I’m sorry. I knew this would take some time, but I didn’t know it would take _this_ long. I think they found a secret tunnel to Junmyeon’s house on the coast and Chanyeol is walking him there instead of saying goodbye before the terminal.”

Luhan chuckles, confident and relaxed as he reaches over and plucks one of Minseok’s hands from the wheel, bringing it down so they can hold hands over the center console. All of his movements are always so sure, while Minseok has barely been able to pick a piece of lint off Luhan’s sweater without his fingers shaking. 

“Don’t apologize. This is nice.” Luhan laces their fingers. In a way, it really is. They’re parked in the very, very back corner of drop-off parking. The sky outside is gray and swirling; snow practically flying sideways from the wind. But the inside of the car is warm, the hum of the engine is soothing, and it’s the first time they’ve been completely alone since they met. 

Most of their dates so far have been crammed into odd hours of the day. Since Luhan works from home and is a full-time dad, it’s hard for him to get away. Minseok understands, is always careful about respecting Luhan’s time and space. It just means that sometimes they can only go to lunch together while Luhan leaves his kids at the neighbor’s, or take him out to a movie while his daughter and son are at a playdate. Luhan still draws a line at Minseok meeting his kids—as playful as he is, lighthearted, Luhan is fiercely protective of them. 

So today, it was like the stars aligned when Luhan told Minseok his kids were going to be with his parents all day, because Minseok had already requested for a day away from work. 

That is, until he remembered just why he’d asked for it in the first place.

“ _I’ll come with you_ ,” Luhan had said after Minseok explained he’d already made a commitment.

“ _Are you sure? You’ll have to meet my friends and sometimes they can be_ —”

“ _Minseok. I want to_.”

Minseok finds himself staring at their clasped hands, the red of the string still so _strange_ to see after all these years without it. There’s a glint of silver, and what used to be a singeing pang now only feels like a soft nudge. 

“When Chanyeol gets back and we drop him off, is there anything particular you want to do today?”

Luhan ponders that, fifty different kinds of cute as his lips purse. Minseok would be suspicious of his age had he not witnessed first-hand the creature that Luhan turned into when he gave full-bodied laughs.

“Soccer.”

“Is there a game on?”

Luhan shakes his head. “No. I want to play you.”

Minseok stares at him unblinkingly. “It’s snowing.”

“So?” Luhan smirks, eyes challenging in a way that makes Minseok’s hackles rise. “Are you just going to list excuses? You’re really that scared of playing me after all your big talk?”  
Really, it had been _Luhan_ with the endless string of bragging. When he found out Minseok had played collegiately, he’d shrieked with glee, claiming he’d been scouted for soccer in high school, and was being primed to train with a professional team before he’d injured his knee past the point of healing. For being so pretty, Luhan sure knew how to talk shit. 

“Kicking the ball is going to feel like a rock.”

“Your thighs look more than strong enough to me.”

Minseok gulps, hoping his expression remains placid. There hasn’t been anything between them except for some hand holding, but to know Luhan has been noticing things that like about him is…nice. 

“And it’s going to be so slippery in the snow—”

“Cleats, Minseok, cleats. Are you sure you played soccer? Or has your old age wore you down?”

Luhan and Minseok stare at each other, Luhan brimming with merriment at the thought and Minseok scrutinizing. Slowly, Minseok says, “I’m just worried that I’m going to burn your ass so bad that you won’t go on another date with me.”

“I think I like you too much for that to happen.” While Minseok loses his breath, Luhan’s smile turns primal. “And we’ll see about that.”

 

☓

 

After sending Chanyeol his second selfie of the day, Junmyeon puts his phone in his pocket only to look up and see his stepfather staring at him in confusion. 

“You taking pictures of yourself?” he asks from his spot on the sofa, his loyal greyhound laying beside him with his head in his lap. Junmyeon nods, trying not to seem embarrassed. “Your sister does that all the time, never expected to see you do it.”

Junmyeon’s half-sister is also sixteen and likes to purse her lips at her camera, sending selfies to what is apparently a very long list of suitors. It was weird last night, to say the least, when his mom mentioned to him that she acts a lot like Junmyeon did when he was at that age. 

“I…promised someone,” Junmyeon says. 

Mrs. Kim appears in the glass sliding door that leads to the deck, opening it just enough to ask Junmyeon if he wouldn’t mind giving her some help. He nods, grabbing his shoes and joining her in the backyard. 

His mother has cultivated a beautiful garden. It takes up a large section of the yard, complete with a cherub fountain and smooth gray stones laid into the ground to create a whimsical path. Intricate and lush, there’s bursts of color tangled together, baby’s breath and hibiscus and amaranth in one section, with roses and tulips in another. All of the flowers and plants are vibrant in a way that Junmyeon’s flower shop back home can’t compete with. 

He finds his mother kneeling in a section by a tiny koi pond, carefully pulling weeds from around some tall, leafy purple flowers that Junmyeon doesn’t recognize. She instructs him to bring over a couple bags of compost, smiling at him proudly when he retrieves them from the garage. 

Her face is smudged with dirt, but her eyes crinkle happily in the shade of her sunhat when Junmyeon stays to help her fertilize. Junmyeon tells her the latest adventures of his flower shop, asking her about the parts of her garden he can’t recognize. She shows him how to carefully poke around the plants to oxidize the soil.

When his phone buzzes in succession—another one of Chanyeol’s texting sprints—he pauses, wipes his dirty hands on his jeans to a _tsk_ from his mom, and pulls his phone out of his pocket. Junmyeon doesn’t remember his mom is even there as Chanyeol’s face pops up on the screen, throwing up another peace sign. 

“Who’s he?” she asks, hands remaining busy with the soil even when her attention is on Junmyeon. He jumps, fighting the instinct he has to hide his phone. It takes a couple of dragging seconds to remind himself that he’s happy. Being tied is nothing to be wary of, especially with someone as amazing as Chanyeol at the other end of his string. Yet his words still feel wobbly as he says, “That’s Chanyeol. He’s my _Akaito_.”

Mrs. Kim drops her mini garden rake with a gasp.

“ _Akaito_?”

Junmyeon nods, his throat a little tight as he holds out his phone so she can get a better look. Blinking wildly, she presses her trembling hand against her chest and peers at the screen. 

“He’s…”

“He’s in college. Just turned twenty.”

“My goodness—”

“We’ve been tied for a little more than two years now.”

All of Mrs. Kim’s fluttering and stuttering comes to a screeching halt. Her gaze is a weight against Junmyeon, who tries and tries and tries not to let himself feel guilty at the way she looks so betrayed. 

“Oh,” she shakily says. "Why haven’t—I don’t—” 

Junmyeon watches as Mrs. Kim takes a deep breath. Then, with a sense of amazement, he sees her manage a smile. The muscles in her jaw are tight, but she reaches for Junmyeon’s free hand, squeezing it with her own. 

“Congratulations, Junmyeon.” Her lips purse together as she audibly swallows, eyes shining a little too wet for Junmyeon’s comfort. 

He can barely help it when he says, “I’m sorry, for not telling you sooner. It was complicated and—well—it’s a long story.”

“Isn’t it always.” She searches his face, for what, Junmyeon doesn’t know. But his heart squeezes uncomfortably. “Twenty, you say? Things work out strangely.”

“They do,” Junmyeon quietly says. He looks down at his screen, at Chanyeol’s smile. “I like him a lot, Mom. He’s good for me.”

“Well he’s your _Akaito_ , isn’t he?” Mrs. Kim sniffles. Shaking her head, her little diamond earrings glittering in the sunlight, she sucks in another deep breath. “ _Akaito_. You’re tied. My son is tied.”

“I am. If I hurt you by—”

“No, no,” Mrs. Kim says. “I know, Junmyeon. I know I may have…ruined things for you, in a way. That it makes sense why you’d keep this to yourself.” She gulps. “It’s not my place to be hurt. I am simply—you’re happy? You’re happy with him?”

“Yes. More than happy.”

Junmyeon’s mom smoothes her hand over his cheek. Suddenly he’s four years old again, staring up at his mom with wonder and love. “My beautiful boy. Then I’m happy, too.” She clears her throat. “Do you have more pictures? Would you mind telling me more about him?”

Junmyeon smiles, placing his hand over hers. “Mom, my photo library is nothing but pictures of him. The first thing I’m going to tell you about Chanyeol is that this kid has a _problem_ with selfies.”

Later that day, Mrs. Kim announces to the rest of the family that Junmyeon has an _Akaito_. His two half-brothers shrug it off, one on his Nintendo DS and the other preoccupied with his phone, but his half-sister sidles up to him and requests to see pictures.

“Oh my god, he is _delicious_!” she squeals. Junmyeon imagines that maybe his mom is right; he and the sixteen year old may have more in common than he thought.

 

☓

 

Mr. Kim grunts when Junmyeon tells him. “ _Akaito_ , huh?”

“Yeah. For a couple years now.” Junmyeon braces himself. 

“Well I’ll be damned.” Mr. Kim leans back against the seat of the golf cart, drumming his fingers against the wheel. “He got a job?”

“He’s a sophomore in college.”

His dad barks a laugh that echoes across the green. “You’ve got yourself a live one. Like father like son, I suppose.”

It takes a lot of concentration for Junmyeon not to cringe. It feels like there is a very big difference between Junmyeon’s _Akaito_ and the increasingly young women his dad used to bring home. But this reaction is better than what Junmyeon had been expecting, and when his dad puts the cart into drive, he can’t help but agree when Mr. Kim says, “Let’s go get you a drink. _Akaito_.” He snorts and shakes his head. “You’ll need it.”

 

☓

 

The eve of Christmas Eve, Chanyeol goes to Harper’s to celebrate with old friends. Mr. and Mrs. Lim throw a Christmas party every year, sending out an open invitation to all of their usual patrons and students. There’s food and eggnog, and lots of grabbing guitars and banjos and mandolins off of displays to play holiday music. It’s cozy and warm, friends surrounded by instruments, a crowd of feet creaking against the wooden floorboards.

Mrs. Lim stuffs Chanyeol with cookies as one of the instructors plays _O Holy Night_ on violin. The sales floor is full with people in ugly Christmas sweaters, some wearing the fashion more purposefully than others. Chanyeol is rocking his own cashmere v-neck, an early Christmas gift from Minseok, and a black beanie that he’s pushed his bangs beneath. Chanyeol is barely able to move from one person to another without getting his back patted, future asked about. 

“He has a _boyfriend_ ,” Mrs. Lim coos when the parent of one of Chanyeol’s ex students asks him what he’s been up to. “He’s very handsome, too.” Chanyeol would pretend to be embarrassed, but his chest puffs with a kind of pride he can’t control.

“Did you bring him here?” the parent asks, visibly perking as she looks around the room. 

Chanyeol’s chest deflates. “No, actually. He couldn’t make it because he’s out of town with his family right now.”

Before he can dwell on that, he feels someone tugging on his sleeve, and looks down to see—

“Danah!” Chanyeol exclaims, stooping down to sweep the girl into a hug. Her arms are cautious at first but then she squeezes back with equal fervor. When Chanyeol pulls away, her cheeks are pink and glasses eschew. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

Danah straightens her glasses and points to where her dad is talking with the instructor who took over some of Chanyeol’s old students. “My dad brought me.”

The kid is ten years old now. Chanyeol can’t believe it. She was six when she first came to Harper’s, quiet and wary of Chanyeol, who was sixteen at the time. The poor girl cried the first couple sessions, stressed about being left in a room with a stranger and frustrated when her fingers didn’t work the frets of her wee guitar right. Chanyeol used to play his guitar for her to calm her down, yodeling and squeaking and exercising his terrible accents while singing different renditions of her favorite songs. She may have been terrified of that, too, but eventually she started giggling and begged Chanyeol to do it at the end of their sessions as a reward for her hard work.

And now she’s growing, showing the promise of teenagerdom and looking a little more aware of herself. Chanyeol has to restrain himself from pinching her cheeks and ranting about how much she’s grown since the last time they saw each other over the summer. They catch up, Danah telling him about school and her new pet geckos, no news of the tyrant in the grade above her, Chanyeol raptly listening. 

“Hey,” Chanyeol says, breaking into a grin as he remembers something. “Come over here really quick.”

Danah follows him through the crowd, Chanyeol earning a few more hugs and handshakes on their way, until they get to where he’s left his backpack behind the register. He pulls it out, pointing to a clunky wooden pin on the front pocket. 

“You still have that?” Danah asks, her eyes widening. The guitar pin has definitely seen better days. Almost all of the glitter is gone, and a lot of the paint has been scratched or chipped away. There’s a few lone beads still on it, fighters to the very bitter end. 

“Of course. It’s one of the coolest presents I’ve ever gotten,” Chanyeol proudly says. He means it. School is great, working the coffee stall is also great, but nothing gets to him quite like teaching guitar. Danah and the pin are a reminder of that; of the blossoming of something inside of him that he still hasn’t been able to shake. 

“It’s so ugly,” Danah breathes, making Chanyeol break into laughter. “I was really bad at art, back then.” She says it with all the wisdom of a ten year old, astonished that the version of herself two years earlier would gift something so rough.

“Well, in your defense, a lot of it has fallen off. It used to be a lot prettier.”

Danah shrugs. “I’ll make you a new one. A better one.”

“I’d like that,” Chanyeol says, putting his bag back on the floor. 

“I still have this.” Danah sticks her fingers down the front neck of her shirt and retrieves the pick he gave her, still dangling from the same cheap chain. “I don’t wear it all the time because I’m afraid to lose it, but I put it on tonight to show you.”

Chanyeol thinks he’s going to cry. Danah seems to catch onto that and frowns, unsure why her ex guitar instructor’s mouth is going all squiggly. 

“That’s so—cool.” Chanyeol’s voice slightly cracks. “Have you been practicing since the last time we saw each other?”

Danah nods, pointing to one of the guitars on the wall. “Yeah, I have a couple new pieces I’ve gotten really good at. Want me to show you?”

Five minutes later, the two of them are sitting, situated at the top of the stairs that lead down to the dark practice rooms, separated enough from the clatter of the party that Chanyeol can hear Danah clearly when she starts to play. Over the past year, she’s taken on a more classical preference to her studying. He can instantly recognize _Ave Maria_ coming from her chords, echoing down the hall.

The amount of progress Danah has made is astounding. There’s a new assuredness to her, something he had never been able to see before. She’s confident, and it shows. A budding guitar deity. 

Chanyeol actually sniffles. This time, Danah is too engrossed in playing to notice. He feels so full—both of Mrs. Lim’s cookies and happiness. Shivers go through him as Danah’s fingers fly across the frets. He wants to do this—work with kids, teach, see the impact he makes—forever. All he has to do now is figure out which major would best help him do that. 

When Danah finishes, the last note rings in the air. She slowly looks up at him, waiting for a response. 

The party breaks into applause, both Danah and Chanyeol flailing in surprise. Without them noticing, a small crowd had gathered behind them, quietly listening to Danah play. Danah’s face turns bright red, but Chanyeol recognizes that look in her eye; some kind of hunger being fulfilled. Chanyeol joins in clapping, the sound sharp from the acoustics, and urges Danah to wave to her adoring fans. 

“Another one!” Mr. Lim calls out, others chorusing their agreement. Danah is speechless, but after looking to Chanyeol for one last confirmation, she begins to play another song. 

 

☓

 

Yura jumps on Chanyeol’s bed, making him howl as his laptop almost bounces right off the mattress. His knuckles are white as he grips it, pulling it back to safety as Junmyeon asks, “What happened—”

“Nice to see you again, Junmyeon,” Yura says with a toothy grin, craning her neck to show in the camera. She settles down on her stomach like Chanyeol, the two of them laying squished side-by-side. In front of them on the laptop’s screen, Junmyeon’s eyes look like they’re about to pop right out of his head. 

“Hi—nice,” Junmyeon’s voice tightens, he tries to clear his throat, “you—too.”

“Yura—god—can’t you knock?” Chanyeol whines, trying to elbow her away, but she elbows him right back. As Chanyeol straightens his backwards snapback, Yura leans closer to the screen, taking in her brother’s _Akaito_. Chanyeol can’t tell if the internet connection is lagging or if Junmyeon has really gone deadly still.

“He’s so pretty,” Yura says, tilting her head. Her hair is pulled back into a nubbin of a ponytail, hair falling around her face. Both she and Chanyeol are back in their parent’s home for the week, settling into their old rooms, and old routines of driving each other crazy.

“You know we’re Skyping, right? He can hear you. This isn’t just a video.”

“I know.” Yura shrugs. “I’m just saying, your _Akaito_ is very attractive.”

Junmyeon gives a garbled thanks as Chanyeol says, “I know.”

“Junmyeon, I hope that you and I will get a chance to meet before New Year’s Eve.” Yura finally backs away from the screen, leaning her head against Chanyeol’s shoulder. 

All the way on the east coast, Junmyeon is sitting at his mother’s table with his laptop in front of him. He still isn’t over the fact of how Chanyeol and Yura look unsettlingly alike. Their noses, their jaws, the shape of their eyes—the _look_ in their eyes—are like copy and paste.

“I—New Year’s Eve?” Junmyeon asks, still stiff as a board. 

“Yura—” Chanyeol tries pushing her away but she pulls on his ear to get him to stop. Almost twice her size, Chanyeol makes a wounded noise and buries his face against the mattress.

“Chanyeol hasn’t told you yet?” she asks, deceivingly innocent. “Our mom and dad want to have a little… _get-together_ when you’re back in town. They told Chanyeol it’d be nice if he invited you over for lunch so they could officially meet you. Since, you know,” she conspiratorially whispers, “that first time didn’t really count.”

It is _so hot_ at Junmyeon’s mom’s house. He plucks at his shirt, trying to circulate some air. “No, he, um, he hadn’t mentioned that.”

Chanyeol’s face shoots back up, “I was going to tell you! I swear! I just didn’t want to give you one more thing to worry about over Christmas.” Chanyeol’s gaze darkens as he glares at his sister, who looks vastly unconcerned. “ _Yura_.”

“It’s okay, it is.” But Junmyeon doesn’t believe himself. He and Mrs. Park aren’t exactly best friends at this point, and like it was yesterday, he can still feel the grip of Mr. Park’s handshake after he and Chanyeol had stumbled out of the dressing room.

“You sure? Because you look nauseous.”

Junmyeon deeply inhales through his nose. “No, I’m good. I’ve just—fine.”

“I know something that might help you feel better,” Yura says, and Junmyeon swears, that’s the same exact look Chanyeol gets when he’s about to do something naughty. “I may or may not still have a picture of a certain Park sibling dressed in drag. That Park sibling may or may not be wearing a skirt. Would you have any interest in seeing it?”

This is _not_ an appropriate thing to be talking about the first time they meet, as much as Junmyeon feels like he knows Yura personally from what Chanyeol has told him, but he can’t help the flinch of hesitation in his reply when he says, “No, thank you.”

“You still have that thing?” Chanyeol asks, but when Junmyeon expects him to freak out, Chanyeol excitedly continues, “Show it to me! Junmyeon, I looked so _hot_. Well, even hotter than usual.”

Junmyeon speechlessly watches as Yura pulls her phone out from her pocket, flipping through it to find something until Chanyeol gleefully laughs. “This is it!”

Yura lets Chanyeol take the phone and hold it toward the computer’s camera. Junmyeon has to wait a moment as the sudden shift in lighting adjusts, and then he sees Chanyeol. In a long wig. And a skirt. Wearing leggings on his spindly legs. Making a sultry face at the camera that looks slightly constipated.

“Dear. God.”

“Sexy, right?” he can hear Chanyeol ask, voice deep and crackly through the speakers.

“That…wasn’t the word I was going to use.”

Unfortunately, something stirs in Junmyeon’s gut as Chanyeol flips through pictures and shows them to the laptop’s camera. Needless to say, it is a very, very confusing experience that makes Yura’s lookalike presence all the more uncomfortable. 

“Your legs are so weird,” Junmyeon chooses to say, making Yura laugh. Chanyeol pulls the phone away, studying his legs in the picture. He’s knobby-kneed with a bowlegged curve that sometimes makes him look cartoonish.

“Yeah, like sexy weird.”

“No. Giraffe-weird.”

Chanyeol’s hand with the phone lifelessly drops to the mattress. “We already covered this. Giraffes are goddamn adorable. _Some_ would even say that they are like nature’s rockstars.”

“No one says that,” Yura says, causing Chanyeol’s pout to deepen. Something sharp hits Junmyeon’s chest at the sight of the unintentional adorableness. It’s been happening a lot these past couple days, the distance between him and Chanyeol feeling sickeningly far. It even happened when they were both in town, Chanyeol at his classes or Junmyeon shutting himself in his room to get work done. Even a tiny amount of space is unbearable.

He knows why. Knew it a couple weeks ago. Maybe even knew it that day inside of State’s cafeteria, pushing all of his trepidation aside to confess to Chanyeol. 

All that’s left is to come home to his _Akaito_. Say it.

“What day are you coming home again?” Yura asks. Junmyeon hadn’t even realized she and Chanyeol had continued bickering, feeling like he’s been hooked in the mouth to come flopping out of his thoughts.

“The twenty-ninth,” Junmyeon says, a little dazed. 

Chanyeol goofily grins, absolutely smitten. “I can’t wait.”

 

☓

 

“Take a seat, Junmyeon,” Mr. Park says after Junmyeon has closed the front door behind himself and handed over his coat. He gestures to the living room, and Junmyeon is barely able to swallow his beating heart back down his throat as he steps walks past him.

The Park’s home is small, cozy in a way that the pristine nature of his own parents’ houses could never achieve. It’s been lived in, thoroughly. All of the furniture is slightly mismatched, arranged tightly to accommodate the space. Junmyeon can tell from the wear that they are a family that sit together often, sprawled over the chairs, legs kicked up on the scratched coffee table. 

And Junmyeon may have never been here before, but he sees traces of Chanyeol as he remembers little things his _Akaito_ has told him. Scuffs on the wooden floor from when he was ten and decided to wear his rollerblades indoors. Framed pictures are awkwardly gathered on the wall by the stairs, covering what Chanyeol had referred to as the attempt he made when he was four at recreating the art of the Sistine Chapel, but with Sharpie.

Junmyeon sees pieces of Chanyeol’s past everywhere, from the school photos on the TV stand to the runaway guitar pick on the floor. He just doesn’t see Chanyeol himself. He tries not to glance around—not make it obvious that he’s searching for him. But the kid said that he’d _be here_ , waiting for Junmyeon at the door so that he wouldn’t be left alone with Mr. and Mrs. Park. 

Junmyeon moves toward the loveseat, about to sit until—

“Not that seat,” Mrs. Park says, joining him in the living room. She gently places a hand on Junmyeon’s elbow, steering him to a worn recliner in the corner of the room. Its fabric is pink velvet, with a folded quilt thrown over the top. 

As soon as Junmyeon settles against the cushion, wincing a little bit despite himself, Mr. and Mrs. Park take a seat on the couch across from him. There’s a forced closeness from the size of the room, and Junmyeon is so used to the open space of his parents’ homes that it feels unnatural to only have a coffee table separating them. The Parks are wearing tweed sweaters and matching smiles, like a couple on the cover of a brochure for healthy middle-aged living, and Junmyeon still feels uneasy.

“Do you need anything to drink, Junmyeon?” Mr. Park asks. Junmyeon _is_ feeling terribly cotton-mouthed, but he doubts that Mr. Park meant it as an actual offer.

“No, I’m fine,” Junmyeon says, then quickly tacks on a, “sir.”

When Mr. Park laces his fingers in his lap, Junmyeon can’t help but notice he has _huge_ hands, even bigger than Chanyeol’s. Junmyeon tucks his own little hands against his abdomen.

“So Junmyeon,” Mr. Park says, “you and I haven’t had a chance to properly meet, yet.”

“No, sir.”

The corner of Mr. Park’s mouth twitches. “As important as it makes me feel, you don’t have to call me _sir_.”

“Sorry si—sorry.” This is ridiculous. Junmyeon has a spine. A good one, too. He’s dealt with people ten times more intimidating than the Parks. It’s just very hard to remember that when seeing Mr. Park has made the memory of their first meeting rise to the surface, fresh and just as humiliating.

“So since Chanyeol isn’t here right now, I’d like to get to know a couple things about you.” Mr. Park reaches over the arm of his chair to grab— _a pad of paper and a pen_? 

“That—that’s fine. Did you say that Chanyeol wasn’t here?”

“No. We sent him out to get a couple more things for dinner. Is that a problem?” Mrs. Park lightly asks.

“Of course not,” Junmyeon blurts. That traitor.

“Good,” Mr. Park says, and Junmyeon _knows_ he’s making a show of it as he lightly taps the tip of the pen to his tongue then holds it over the paper. “Then let’s begin the intervi—excuse me—” He nudges Mrs. Park and chuckles, dimples deepening. “—getting to know each other. What is your height?”

“My height?” Junmyeon’s voice cracks.

“Yes. Is that too hard of a question for you? We’re just getting started.”

Junmyeon shakes his head, searching Mr. Park’s expression for some kind of sign this is a joke. But he’s unyielding, waiting patiently like he’d just asked Junmyeon what his hobbies were. “No, of course not—I’m um, five feet, eight inches.”

Mr. and Mrs. Park go still, creepily synchronized with the way both of their eyebrows raise at the same time. Mrs. Park slowly says, “You’re five-eight?”

“Uh.” Junmyeon clears his throat. “Possibly closer to five-seven.”

More silence. Is—is Junmyeon’s tie tightening around his throat?

“Or around five-six, without shoes,” Junmyeon quickly says, sure that his skin is going to melt right off his face from blushing so hard. They still don’t look like they believe him, but Mr. Park relents and writes it on the note pad.

“Weight?” he asks. Junmyeon looks to Mrs. Park for help. She’s sitting straight, lips tightening the way they did when the two of them met at the café, but she remains quiet.

Great. Junmyeon knows he’s small, but there’s something extra shaming about having to relay the numbers over to his _Akaito_ ’s parents. But he promised himself he’d do whatever they asked, be pleasant and willing to the very end.

So this time, he knows better. Junmyeon manages to push out a wobbly, “114 pounds.”

“One hundred,” Mr. Park sounds out as he writes, “and fourteen…pounds.” He looks up, and Junmyeon sees so much of Chanyeol in him as his eyes crinkle when he says, “Just so you know, Junmyeon, I weigh sixty pounds more than you.”

_Message received_ Junmyeon wants to say, but all he can do is croak out an, “Oh.”

“So,” Mr. Park says, “Let’s move on to your career.”

“Okay.”

“And annual salary.”

Junmyeon blanches, and that’s when Mrs. Park lets out a burst of a giggle like she’d been holding it in. She slaps her husband’s thigh. “Okay, that’s enough.” She gestures at Junmyeon. “Look at what you’re doing to the poor boy. He’s miserable.”

“But honey, we were just getting started—”

“No, I told you I’d play along for a little bit. You’ve had your fun, and it’s over now.”

All Junmyeon can do is blink, stunned, as Mrs. Park reaches for the pen and paper in Mr. Park’s hands. He tries to avoid her, a move of flailing arms, but Mrs. Park is nimble and snatches them away. She hits him with the notepad for good measure.

Before Mr. Park can complain more, the front door bursts open, Chanyeol careening through like he’d been launched into the room. His arms are strapped with plastic bags, stuffed with groceries. “Junmyeon I’m so sorry I wasn’t here, they kept on texting me and Yura more things to pick up and—” He stops, looks between Junmyeon and his parents. “Why is Junmyeon in The Trouble Chair?”

_The Trouble Chair_? This _is the famous Trouble Chair_? Junmyeon wonders, looking down at the pink fabric. From outside the door, Junmyeon hears a cackle just before Yura makes her entrance. She’s only carrying one bag, hanging delicately from her wrist. 

“They put him in The Trouble Chair?” She beams, shutting the door behind herself. Both her and Chanyeol have blotchy pink cheeks from the cold, hair tucked beneath thick beanies. “Awesome.”

Chanyeol drops the bags to the floor in a chorus of clunks. Junmyeon does _not_ belong in The Trouble Chair. Junmyeon is an accountant in his thirties and should not be on the chair that Chanyeol had to be reprimanded in when he was nine for taking Baekhyun’s dare and shaving off his right eyebrow.

“What are you guys doing to my _Akaito_?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Mr. Park innocently says. “Just having a chat.”

Chanyeol’s eyes narrow. _Yeah_ , _right_. He hurries to take off his boots. “Junmyeon, what did they do to you?”

He sees Junmyeon glance at his dad, and doesn’t miss it when Mr. Park whispers, “Be cool, Junmyeon.”

“Uh. Nothing.” But Junmyeon’s features are all drawn tight—always that same expression of constipation when he’s trying to look nonchalant. Chanyeol rushes to him, his _Akaito_ looking so small and confused opposite his evil, _evil_ parents. The way his dad laughs like a super villain is not helping the situation.

Junmyeon’s hand automatically reaches out for Chanyeol’s as he approaches, but as soon as Junmyeon’s fingers slide across his palm, Junmyeon frowns. “Chanyeol, did you not wear gloves out there?”

Before Chanyeol can reply, his mother sighs, “Park Chanyeol did you lose the second pair of gloves I bought you?”

“No, Mom I didn’t—”

“Jesus, they’re like icicles.” Junmyeon sandwiches Chanyeol’s hand between both of his, rubbing them together.

Chanyeol feels his eye twitch. “Why are you in The Trouble Chair?”

“We just had a couple questions for him. That’s all.” Mr. Park is staring where Junmyeon is trying to warm Chanyeol’s hand. Junmyeon’s movements suddenly stop, but just when Chanyeol feels him start to pull away, he twists his wrist to grab a hold of Junmyeon, lugging him to a standing position. 

“I can’t believe I missed it,” Yura wistfully says. “Did you get in some good digs, Dad?”

Chanyeol protectively wraps an arm around Junmyeon’s shoulders. 

“A few,” Mr. Park admits. “I now have his supposed height and weight on record.”

“ _Daaad_ ,” Chanyeol whines. Junmyeon is just so _sensitive_ about those things. He knows. He has been hit upside the head many times because of it. “And Mom you just let him—”

“I’m fine, Chanyeol,” Junmyeon says. “They’re just joking. All we did was talk.”

Chanyeol doesn’t look like he believes him, suspiciously squinty-eyed to the very end as he lugs Junmyeon out of the living room, up the stairs, and into his room. 

“Keep that door open!” Mrs. Park calls from downstairs.

“I’m so sorry,” Chanyeol says to Junmyeon, closing his door with extra force. He takes off his beanie, his hair a haphazard mess. “I had a bad feeling when they asked me to go run some last-minute errands, but Yura promised it wouldn’t take so long, and—”

It’s hard for Junmyeon to be frustrated with his gullible _Akaito_ when he looks so ruffled and pouty. “Honestly, Chanyeol. They just teased me a little. Nothing too bad.”

“I just…” Chanyeol sighs, flopping down to his bed. “I wanted tonight to be perfect. Things between you guys got off to like, the worst start, but I—I’m so into you and I want my parents to like you just as much as I do. Well, not as much as I do, because then—”

“Chanyeol I’m not going to let you finish that sentence.” Junmyeon sits beside him on the bed, lacing their fingers together as he looks around Chanyeol’s old bedroom. Right across from him, there’s dust-covered One Piece and Naruto figurines crammed on one shelf, above three racks of comic books. The baseball mitt hanging by the closet is noticeably clean, unused. 

As Junmyeon looks across drawn pictures taped to the wall—anime characters with exaggerated muscles, holding guitars or sitting behind drums—he feels Chanyeol wiggle closer to him, then the warmth of breath on his cheek before Chanyeol kisses him.

“I haven’t gotten to say ‘hi’ to you yet,” Chanyeol explains, giving another peck before Junmyeon turns his face until their noses bump.

“Hi,” Junmyeon softly says, tightening his grip on Chanyeol’s hand. 

A slow grin breaks over Chanyeol’s face as they search each other’s eyes. “Hi. I missed you.”

“We saw each other yesterday,” Junmyeon says, instead of _I missed you, too_.

“Yeah.” Chanyeol tilts his head just enough to barely graze their lips together. His voice deepens. “And I’ve been thinking about it all day.”

Junmyeon gulps. With how sore he still is, he hasn’t been able to think about much else, either.

When Chanyeol kisses him, it’s with much more tongue than should be allowed when Chanyeol’s parents are less than 100 feet away. But Junmyeon allows him, savors the sweetness of Chanyeol’s taste because it makes pleasant shivers go down his spine at the memory of Chanyeol in his apartment yesterday. 

Chanyeol slightly pulls away, speaking into Junmyeon’s mouth. “You have no clue how many times I imagined you in here with me when I was in high school. That was like my fantasy and now you’re actually sitting on my bed.”

“Oh yeah?” Junmyeon asks with a smirk, kissing Chanyeol’s plush lower lip. “Well let me tell you, that picture of you and your grandparents on the side table doesn’t do much for me.”

Chanyeol leans back to look at the picture, sheepishly smiling at his ten year-old self. The kid was adorably chubby, with glasses that sat crooked on his nose. Junmyeon’s heart swells with warmth at the thought of nerdy little Chanyeol, of an even _littler_ Chanyeol, of holding a baby with big, expressive eyes, and goofy ears that stick out at an angle, and—

_Holy shit_. Junmyeon physically jerks when he realizes just what he’s thinking. 

“You okay?” Chanyeol asks, unlacing their fingers so he can slide his big, warm hand across Junmyeon’s back.

“Yeah.” Junmyeon nods. He barely just got Chanyeol back in his life. Now is not the time to be thinking about…mini-Chanyeols. It’s so unlike him, anyway, that he can’t seem to gather himself back together as Chanyeol pulls him close again.

“If I put that picture facedown, think we could make a couple of my high school fantasies come true?” Chanyeol lowly asks in Junmyeon’s ear.

Junmyeon’s expression flattens, his mood has been killed and not much is going to be able to revive it. “Your parents are downstairs.”

“But—”

“There is nothing sexy about a twin bed.”

“There is if I’m on it.”

Junmyeon won’t admit that he has a bit of a point. “Chanyeol, the last time I saw your father, you’d come in your pants just ten minutes earlier. Let’s not make a theme of it.”

Chanyeol goes quiet. “Point taken.”

Ten minutes later, after Chanyeol has changed into nicer clothes, the two of them rejoin the Parks downstairs. 

Mrs. Park is clanking around the kitchen, organizing the groceries Chanyeol and Yura brought. When Junmyeon asks if she needs any help, she smiles, not completely unkind when she says, “I have been pre-warned not to let you into the kitchen tonight. Something about burning the house to the ground.”  
Junmyeon glares at Chanyeol, who carefully edges behind his big sister for protection, then guffaws, “What? It’s true.”

“And I don’t know if you should put a knife in his hand, honey.” Mr. Park pokes his head into the kitchen. “He may still be smarting from the whole ‘five-six’ debacle.”

Yura snorts, and Junmyeon doesn’t miss the way that Mrs. Park breaks into a grin before managing to school her expression back to neutral. 

“ _Hey_ , that’s not cool,” Chanyeol says, Junmyeon’s own eloquent version of a knight in shining armor. Junmyeon isn’t used to this—the push and pull of teasing between family members, the way he can’t completely tell if Mr. Park is edging on bad intentions, or not. He realizes his shoulders are stiff, practically inching toward his ears, so Junmyeon tries his best to relax, rolling up his sleeves as he walks over to the sink. 

“You _should_ be worried,” Junmyeon says, hoping his voice sounds light even though it goes against his instinct to joke around with the man who is sixty pounds heavier than him. “I may be five-six, but that just means I have a smaller container to hold all of my anger in.”

To Junmyeon’s massive relief, Mr. Park laughs. “I’ll have to remember that.”

Mrs. Park brings a plastic crate of clams to the sink as Junmyeon washes his hands. She’s so beautiful, tilting her head at him so some of her hair falls away from her ponytail. “Think you can thoroughly wash these without setting the house on fire? Everyone usually helps out with dinner.”

“I will try my best,” Junmyeon says, and can’t help but be surprised when Mrs. Park pats his arm before turning back to the stove. Like the captain, she gets Yura started on chopping vegetables, and has Mr. Park running around the kitchen to gather everything she needs to make the pasta sauce. 

Chanyeol joins Junmyeon by the double sink, hipping him to the side so that they can both wash the clams beneath the stream of water. There’s a clatter that builds in the kitchen, Junmyeon lulled into it by the warmth of the water, the contrast between the roughness of the clams and the slick feeling of Chanyeol’s skin as he forgoes cleaning and grips Junmyeon’s hands in his just to pester him.

The Parks work in synchrony around the kitchen, Junmyeon trying his best to find spaces for himself as they maneuver back and forth. At first he constantly feels in the way, always standing where someone else needs to be, but they guide and include him past his awkwardness.

“Junmyeon, there’s a spice on that rack in the corner that’s reddish-brown—no, not that one—yes, there, could you toss it over here?” Mr. Park asks, and Junmyeon literally has to toss it over Yura’s head. 

“Junmyeon, in that drawer in front of you, there should be a whisk, can you grab it for me?” No sooner has Junmyeon handed it to Yura when Mrs. Park says, “Junmyeon, please slap Chanyeol’s hand away from that bottle of white wine.”

Chanyeol quickly retracts his hand. “Come on, Mom, I was just going to look at the label.”

Mrs. Park glares at him over her shoulder, continuing to prep the sauce like the professional chef Junmyeon had always imagined her to be. She’s the smallest one in the room, but she’s like the nucleus of the kitchen, everyone orbiting around her.

Somehow, Junmyeon finds himself relaxing. He laughs easier when Mr. Park accidentally knocks a whole pile of sliced yellow squash from Yura’s cutting board, and she angrily huffs before grabbing the wine bottle, managing to get a few good chugs in before Mrs. Park grabs it and chides, “Let me cook with it first, then you can get as smashed as you feel fit _._ ” But then Chanyeol spills flour all over the counter and Mrs. Park grimly looks at Junmyeon. “Junmyeon, dear, there’s an open bottle of sangria in the back of the fridge. Could you get it out and pour me a glass? A _full_ glass.”

The Park’s home is different. It’s not the deafening silence of Junmyeon’s father’s place, or the ear-splitting hecticity of his mother’s home. It’s something in-between, something just as worn and comfortably broken-in as the cushion on The Trouble Chair, as warm as the white clam sauce Mrs. Park has him taste-test. 

“Good?” she asks, smirking because she _knows_ it’s delicious.

“Amazing,” Junmyeon says. He feels a big hand rest on his shoulder as Mr. Park looms— _leans_ —over him to have Mrs. Park give him a taste, too. 

“Beautiful, baby,” he says to his wife, and the way they gently smile at each other makes Junmyeon feel like he should look away.

As the others finish preparing dinner, Junmyeon helps Chanyeol set the table. He’s embarrassed, at first, the way Chanyeol can never really keep his hands to himself. Chanyeol constantly has his palms at Junmyeon’s hips, brushing Junmyeon’s combed hair back into place, kissing him on the cheek because he “couldn’t resist” the way Junmyeon’s face looked as he concentrated on perfectly lining up the silverware. Junmyeon doesn’t want to throw their relationship in Mr. and Mrs. Park’s faces, especially after how obviously troubled it had made them before. 

But then, when Chanyeol has Junmyeon in a back-hug, Chanyeol’s cheek against Junmyeon’s temple, Junmyeon hears Mrs. Park discreetly murmur to Yura, “Get a picture of that for me, would you?” Junmyeon feels himself blush again, pretending not to have heard as he pats Chanyeol’s arms wrapped around his torso. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Yura pull out her phone, Chanyeol’s superhuman ability to detect a picture being taken at any time seemingly off as he sways himself and Junmyeon side-to-side.

Secretly, Chanyeol had noticed Yura. He heard his mom ask for her to take a picture, happiness expanding like a balloon beneath his ribs. 

Chanyeol thinks about sitting with Yura on that bench, the Sunday after his parents found out about him and Junmyeon. He felt so helpless, encompassed by the sickest kind of sadness at the idea that Junmyeon may not be able to blend into his family life—that his parents would forever be opposed to someone who had gotten to be _so fucking important_ to him.

Now, Junmyeon is here. Junmyeon is patiently taking jibes from Chanyeol’s dad, talking with his mom about what she’d need to start growing her own lilies in their sectioned backyard. Chanyeol knows everyone is trying, for his sake. Junmyeon may not understand—or even know that the picture was being taken—but it means that he’s a part of this. That Chanyeol’s mom liked how they looked together, wanted to take a snapshot and keep the moment. It may not mean that everything will be fine, but at least it’s the beginning of something better.

Content at the thought, he pulls Junmyeon even closer, like some life-size teddy bear.

“Okay, everyone,” Mrs. Park says, dumping the clam pasta into a serving bowl, “Looks like we’re ready.” She brings the bowl to the table, followed by Mr. Park and Yura with the rest of the dishes. They all settle in their seats, watching the steam rise from the food. Junmyeon pours more sangria for himself, Mrs. Park, and Yura, as Mr. Park sets down a bottle of beer in front of himself, then another by Chanyeol’s plate. 

“What?” he asks his wife as she scowls at him. “It’s New Year’s Eve and he’s twenty. We’ve got to let him live a little, dear.”

Junmyeon gulps as both Mr. and Mrs. Park glance at him, something almost telepathic in the silence, then Mrs. Park nods. 

“Fine, fine. You’re right.” She sighs, managing a smile at Junmyeon. “You’ll take care of Chanyeol later tonight, right? Make sure he doesn’t get into anything too illegal.”

Chanyeol indignantly grunts. “I don’t need anyone to take care of me.”

“I know,” Junmyeon says to placate him as Yura snorts and says, “Yeah right.”

Mrs. Park is still looking at Junmyeon, who feels pinned beneath her glare. 

“I trust you,” she says. There’s a bit of a silence, Chanyeol curiously glancing back and forth between them, before she continues, “You boys have a good time tonight.”

“But not too much fun,” Mr. Park jokingly says, grabbing his wife’s hand on top of the table and lacing their fingers. “I only have enough bail money for one person, and I have a feeling Yura is going to need that tonight.”

Yura shrugs, a bright smile on her face as she lifts her glass in an offering of a toast. “Here’s to hoping tonight will be kickass enough to land me in jail!”

Junmyeon raises his glass first, then Mr. Park, Chanyeol sneaking a sip of beer—nose wrinkling at the taste—before joining them. 

“I’m not going to toast to that,” Mrs. Park grumbles, but Mr. Park starts laughing and she begrudgingly raises her glass to join the others. 

“To the New Year!” Mr. Park grandly says. 

“To our family and friends, old and new,” Mrs. Park adds. 

“To vacation days and the possible debauchery on all levels that they grant!” Yura exclaims. 

The affronted noise Mrs. Park makes is covered up by Chanyeol saying, “For all the opportunities that’ll come in this next year!”

There’s a breath as everyone looks at Junmyeon, who feels like his words are caught in his throat. He manages to say, “To moving forward, and being happy.”

They clink their glasses together, over-exaggeratedly cheering, then tip their heads back to drink.

Beneath the table, Chanyeol’s hand on Junmyeon’s thigh is so bracing, so sure. 

They’re off to a good start.

 

☓

 

The lines to the vendors that set up around the park are ridiculously long and disorganized. The crowds are getting more and more compact as people arrive, everyone trying to find the best spot to watch the fireworks go off in twenty minutes. Midnight is almost here.

“There’s a café a couple blocks away,” Minseok says over the noise, literally tugging Junmyeon through the crowd. The two of them had been chosen to retrieve hot chocolate for everyone, and Junmyeon would have argued with being treated like a waiter for the college boys had Chanyeol’s nose not looked so cold and red. “I’d rather go there instead of trying to figure out the vendor lines only to be overcharged.”

“Do we have time?”

“Plenty.”

Junmyeon agrees, and the crowd begins to thin out as they walk down the slushy center of the road, away from the park and against the flow of people coming in. The surrounding area is blocked off from traffic for the event, red and blue lights flashing at the end of every street where the police have parked their cars. 

By the time they’ve reached the store and loaded up two cupholders with eight cups of hot chocolate, they only have ten minutes left to get back. The line is longer than expected. Junmyeon impatiently checks his watch over and over again as they wait in line to pay. He’d told Chanyeol there would be a New Years midnight kiss this year, and the way Chanyeol’s face had lit up and he’d bounced around the rest of the day makes Junmyeon not want to break that promise.

“We’ll get there,” Minseok calmly says, reading his mind. Junmyeon shoves his hand into the pockets of his coat.

“I don’t want to make Chanyeol wait.”

Minseok laughs to himself. “Junmyeon, Chanyeol waited for you for over two years. I don’t think a couple minutes will make that much of a difference to him.”

“What about you? Isn’t the whole point of bringing Luhan here to kiss him at midnight?”

Even beneath the cheap fluorescent lighting, Junmyeon can see the pink tinge of Minseok’s cheeks. Minseok looks down at the cupholder in his hands and mumbles, “Luhan wanted to see the fireworks.”

“Have you guys even kissed yet?” Junmyeon can’t resist. After Minseok having so much to use against him for so long, it’s kind of nice to have something to poke him back with. “You’re blushing like a virgin bride.”

The person behind Minseok and Junmyeon laughs, then not-so-successfully tries to make it sound like they were coughing, instead. 

Minseok is aghast. “W—what are we? Two preteens at a slumber party? Shut up.”

“That’s a no, then.” Junmyeon laughs even when Minseok half-heartedly kicks at his shins, almost sending the hot chocolate cupholder tilting off his hand. “You just have to go for it, Minseok. The guy looks at you like you’re a piece of steak, anyway. It’s not like he doesn’t want you to.”

“I hate you,” Minseok hisses. “I just decided I’m _not_ leaving LM &Co., please tell your boss at Wallace Industries that I won’t be taking them up on their job offer because there is no way I’d want to be stuck in an accounting partnership with you.”

“Aw, don’t say that.” Junmyeon had been talking with his boss at Wallace Industries for almost a year now about the possibility of them hiring Minseok once their numbers picked up. Their last quarterly had come in a couple weeks ago and proved promising—which meant that he and Minseok could put together their own partnership, possibly taking on more of the company. “They already talked to me about renting an office space for the two of us if you decided to come on.”

Minseok lets out a long breath, shoulders slumping. He’s quiet, always carefully thinking his words through, then says, “Luhan and I, we’re really taking it slow. Things are complicated, you know that.”

Junmyeon does. He knows about Minseok’s weekly therapy sessions, the little plastic container that sorts his pills by days. How Minseok still hasn’t met Luhan’s kids, and how the last man that Luhan had loved broke his heart and left him as a single father. Junmyeon definitely knows that it takes time to heal, to be able to go forward and learn how to be with someone again. 

“Right,” Junmyeon says, slightly guilty. Just because he knows it’ll make Minseok smile, Junmyeon reaches over and awkwardly pats his back. It works, the line between Minseok’s eyebrows smoothing out again. “But, I mean, it _is_ New Year’s Eve. A little kiss wouldn’t complicate things more, right?”

“Yeah but once I start to kiss him, I don’t think I’m ever going to stop.” Minseok blinks in surprise, like he hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

“That’s goddamn adorable,” an old man a couple people behind them calls, “but you should keep that romance novel shit to a minimum right now because you guys are holding up the line.”

Both Junmyeon and Minseok jump, realizing the person in front of them has already paid and left. In a scramble of embarrassment and apologies, Junmyeon pays for their hot chocolate and the two of them scurry out of the convenience store. 

They try and walk fast, short legs be damned, but Junmyeon’s heart sinks in his chest when he hears the midnight countdown echo through the speakers set up around the park. Twenty seconds is not going to be enough time to get to Chanyeol.

“Here, give me your tray, I can carry both. Go,” Minseok says, and Junmyeon doesn’t put up much of a fight before he’s handing it over then running down the street. Colors whir by, the beams of light from the streetlights, the neon of glowsticks vendors are selling by the box, flashes from phone cameras as people take selfies during the countdown. The air is too cold to be running in, making his lungs ache with icy pricks, but he only has _twelve_ , _eleven_ , _ten_.

Junmyeon dodges through the crowd as it thickens, hopping from the road to the sidewalk, then to the crunchy snow of the park. Chanyeol, Sehun, Jongin, Baekhyun, Kyungsoo, and Luhan should still be waiting at a spot by the sound booth—lit up with blinking white lights as _eight_ , _seven_ , _six_ blares through the speakers. Junmyeon’s heart hammers in his chest, panic growing heavier as he wishes he could close his eyes, open them, and be in Chanyeol’s arms. 

Ever since they made plans to come here tonight, he’s been thinking about the past two New Years. How Chanyeol _so badly_ wanted him to come to this same place two years ago. How quiet it had been when staring at his ceiling last year, unable to sleep his way from the 31st to the 1st. As much as Junmyeon had made it seem like he was worried about how Chanyeol would feel if he wasn’t there to kiss him at midnight, Junmyeon hated the idea of missing it. It’s stupid and kitschy but Chanyeol has a way of making Junmyeon ache to have things like midnight kisses. Like he really _is_ a preteen. 

_Five_ , _four_ , Junmyeon shoulders his way past a cluster of people, knocking someone over in his haste. The man parts through a couple people then hits the ground hard. For a second, Junmyeon waffles, too caught up in his sprint to his _Akaito_ , but he takes a deep breath and comes to a stop. 

“I’m so, so sorry,” Junmyeon says, offering his hand to the man who is sprawl-eagled on his back. Luckily, the friends the man is with drunkenly laugh as he props himself on his elbows, dazedly blinking up at Junmyeon. “I was in a hurry and—”

_Two, one_. The crowd yells a roaring “HAPPY NEW YEAR” and the first firework shoots into the sky, fizzling, popping, then exploding across the night sky. 

_Shit_ , _shit shit shit_ , Junmyeon thinks, gritting his teeth.

“S’okay,” the man says with a grin. He’s huge, a human planet, and Junmyeon is impressed he managed to knock him over until he crouches down to help him up and is smothered by the sharp, woodsy scent of whiskey. With a little help from his other friends, Junmyeon manages to get him to his feet, smothered by man-chest for a moment as the guy loses his balance and wraps his arms around Junmyeon like a flotation device. 

It takes a while for Junmyeon carefully extract himself, the man suddenly very smitten with the “little dude” who literally knocked him off his feet. 

“You wanna stick—round? You’re sucha cute tiny thing,” he says, eyes so drunkenly unfocused that Junmyeon wonders how he’s even standing in the first place. The guy is kind of attractive, in a linebacker way, and maybe a much younger Junmyeon would have been up for the challenge, but things have changed now.

“No, thank you,” Junmyeon says, choosing not to comment on the _tiny thing_. “I have—my _Akaito_ is waiting for me.”

“Well hu—rry up before you miss—mer—midnight kissing!”

“It’s already…” Junmyeon sighs. “Never mind.”

When Junmyeon is free, he says one last sorry before heading toward the sound booth. Deflated, he doesn’t run this time, just carefully shuffles through the crowd. Fireworks hiss and boom above him, crackling as they dissipate through the air. The color of their explosions light the people he passes, faces that aren’t still turned toward a loved one are tilted up in awe.

A little closer, and then—there. There’s Chanyeol. 

Chanyeol isn’t watching the fireworks. He’s facing the direction that Junmyeon left in, eyes wide and searching. The beanie on his head is slightly askew, his scarf wrapped tightly up to his chin, and his coat is so puffy it makes him double in width. Junmyeon’s heart hurts, he likes him so very much.

Then, Chanyeol spots him. 

Chanyeol grins. It’s so crooked and bright, a kind of unrestrained happiness that makes Junmyeon’s knees weak. Blue, and red, then gold spills across Chanyeol’s face as a cacophony of explosions go off, eliciting a chorus of “ _ahh_ ” from the crowd. Junmyeon stops a foot away from him, opening his mouth to call a _sorry_ over all of the noise, but Chanyeol reaches out and pulls Junmyeon into his arms. 

Kisses him. 

Warmth against the chill of the night. Warmth that spreads in his chest, like something has been rooted inside of him that blossoms when he thinks of Chanyeol, is with Chanyeol, touches Chanyeol. 

“I’m sorry,” Junmyeon breathes against Chanyeol’s lips. Chanyeol pauses, pulls away just enough to get a better look at his _Akaito_. 

“What?”

“I’m sorry that I wasn’t here for—”

“I don’t care,” Chanyeol says before he kisses him again. It’s true. Because Junmyeon is here _now_. Junmyeon spent all day getting teased by Chanyeol’s dad, eyed by his mom, then still agreed to go out with Chanyeol and his friends, even when they can be the shittiest of shitheads. 

Midnight kisses don’t matter when Chanyeol gets to kiss Junmyeon whenever and wherever he wants. What matters is the strength at which Junmyeon’s arms wrap around him, how the explosions of fireworks jolt his nerves, sensitive from giddiness at having his _Akaito_ in this moment. At the thought of future moments. 

Chanyeol’s hands cup Junmyeon’s face, the rubber on the bottom of his gloves catching and pulling at Junmyeon’s cheeks. It makes Junmyeon laugh, his body jostling against Chanyeol’s, and Chanyeol suddenly understands why Junmyeon gets so annoyed when Chanyeol can’t stop smiling when they kiss. 

“That wasn’t…the best,” Junmyeon says as he pulls away, but his eyes are crinkled into happy crescents. 

Chanyeol scrunches his nose. “I’m sorry! My lips are numb. Maybe if _someone_ would have gotten the hot chocolate here on time, I would have had a chance to defrost a little bit.”

“Not to interrupt anything.” Baekhyun appears at Chanyeol’s right, Kyungsoo at his side. When the midnight count ticked down, Baekhyun had artfully been avoiding Jongin and Sehun, but judging by how pink his face is, he was unsuccessful. “But where _is_ that hot chocolate? I’m freezing my balls off.”

“What, you gonna stick your balls in the hot chocolate?” Jongin asks, Sehun snorting and giving him a high five.

“Bitch, I might,” Baekhyun sharply says. “It’s _cold_.”

“Where is Minseok, anyway?” Kyungsoo asks, his voice muffled from his scarf. All that’s visible are his large owl eyes. 

“He should be on his way,” Junmyeon says, turning back to see if Minseok is there. He almost misses it completely, eyes scanning over hats and coats and hair, but then he sees Luhan’s bright red ManU scarf. 

Luhan’s arms are wrapped around Minseok, kissing him like he’s starved. Minseok is only a little shorter than his _Akaito_ , but he looks cradled in his embrace, like the women in classic movies who go all limp-limbed when they’re being kissed.

Their hot chocolate is all over the ground, spilled across the snow. 

“Aw, man,” Baekhyun whines. 

Sehun turns to Junmyeon, pointing at the new two-headed creature that is Luseok. “So like, are they super serious?”

“What…do you mean?” Junmyeon asks as Chanyeol sighs. 

“Like a super serious couple.”

Junmyeon raises an eyebrow at him. “They’re _Akaito_ , Sehun.”

“Huh,” Sehun says, stroking his chin. “Interesting.”

Kyungsoo whacks the back of Sehun’s head. “ _No_.”

Not paying attention to them, Chanyeol leans down and presses his lips against Junmyeon’s cheek, holding them there. Junmyeon expects him to pull away, maybe blow a raspberry even though he knows Junmyeon _hates_ that, but Chanyeol is still.

“What are you doing?” Junmyeon asks, putting his arms back around Chanyeol’s waist.

“Trying to warm up my lips,” Chanyeol explains, his breath pleasantly muggy against Junmyeon’s cheek. “Going for round two as soon as I get feeling in them again.”

“We can go get more hot chocolate, if you like.”

“Not enough time,” Chanyeol says. “I have one more place I want to take you, before we go back to your place.”

“What makes you think you’re going home with me?” Junmyeon asks, only to have Chanyeol smoosh his lips and cold nose harder against him. “Okay, okay. What were you planning?”

 

☓

 

It’s almost 1:30 in the morning when Chanyeol and Junmyeon make it to the park. The city is still alive and buzzing with New Years celebrations, but after Chanyeol pays the cab driver and the two of them wander further into the trees, it quiets. 

Streetlamps line the path, spots of yellow light that break up the thickness of the night. Chanyeol takes off the glove of his right hand, and Junmyeon steels himself against the bite of the cold as he takes off the glove on his left. They link fingers, strolling around the curve of the frozen pond until they reach their bench. 

“Remember when I almost died out there?” Chanyeol asks, nodding toward the pond. Junmyeon remembers it with ass-breaking clarity, how he’d warned Chanyeol not to go out on the ice and the kid had gone out there anyway—how his ass hurt for weeks after trying to save him only to slip and bruise his coccyx.

“I remember,” Junmyeon flatly says. 

After Chanyeol takes off his backpack, they sit, huddled close.

“Do you ever make New Years resolutions?” Chanyeol asks. Backlit by a streetlight, Junmyeon is momentarily entranced by the way Chanyeol’s warm breath swirls around his profile; how his eyelashes drag shadows down the top of cheekbones. 

“No. I don’t really buy into that new-year-equals-new-beginning stuff. I don’t need a midnight countdown to help me make changes in my life,” Junmyeon says, to which Chanyeol snorts. Junmyeon feels his throat tighten, like some ingrained warning against being so open, as he continues, “I need clunky giraffe-boys butting their face against my cubicle.”

Chanyeol looks at Junmyeon, his face so cold and numb that his grin is probably lopsided. “That’s all it takes?”

“Yeah. No fireworks for me. No ceremony. Just a bloody nose and a stranger sitting on my desk.”

Chanyeol can’t help but laugh. That day feels like it happened eons ago. Sitting on a bus for hours, blindly seeking an unknown destination. All he had was a stretch of red thread. A promise of something—some _one_ —who was waiting for him at the end of it.

But even back then, Junmyeon had just been an idea. Something that had everything to do with what Chanyeol imagined, wanted, and nothing with who Junmyeon actually was. At first sight, Chanyeol was so enchanted by a handsome guy who wore shiny shoes; but like Junmyeon had said, he was still a stranger. 

The man who gaped at him the day they became tied, the day Chanyeol literally crash-landed into his life, feels completely different than the man sitting with him now, pressing his cheek against Chanyeol’s shoulder. 

“Do you make New Years resolutions?” Junmyeon asks. With his free hand, Chanyeol unzips the backpack at his feet, fingers searching its contents. 

“Once,” Chanyeol says, feeling the cool steel of his thermos then pulling it out of the bag. “I made one, a while ago.”

“What was it?” Junmyeon asks, shifting his head on Chanyeol’s shoulder so he can watch him work. 

“It’s a secret.” Chanyeol can feel Junmyeon looking up, searching his expression. He ignores it, squeezing the thermos between his bony knees to twist the lid off. 

“You aren’t capable of secrets.”

“Yeah I am.”

“Really? Okay, then what happened to that full quart of ice cream I bought last week? The one I bought to share with Minseok during the Chelsea vs. Real Madrid game?”

Chanyeol gulps. “I told you, you must be going senile. I don't think you bought—”

“You still had chocolate smeared on the corner of your mouth when I got back to my place.”

Chanyeol freezes, then slowly looks at Junmyeon. “You were running really late with your meeting, and I was starving.”

“Brat,” Junmyeon says, but at least he’s smiling. He watches as Chanyeol reaches in his bag and pulls out two plastic cups. “Pink lemonade?” Chanyeol nods, passing a cup to Junmyeon as he raises his head. “This is really sweet, babe, but maybe we should go drink something warm?”

“No,” Chanyeol resolutely says, “We need to stay here and drink pink lemonade.”

“You’re shivering.” Junmyeon is right, Chanyeol’s hand is very shaky has he pours it into Junmyeon’s cup.

“So? This is romantic.”

“Ah, yes. Hypothermia is so romantic, like something right out of a Jane Austen novel.”

Chanyeol has never read a book by Jane Austen in his life. “Exactly.”

“Fine. We’ll drink, but then we’re going right back to my place.”

“Fine.” Chanyeol pours his own drink, then takes a sip that partly dribbles down his lips. Junmyeon chuckles, uses his mitten to wipe the pink lemonade off of Chanyeol’s chin. “Don’t laugh. My mouth is still cold.”

Like always, Junmyeon sounds deceptively kind when he says, “Well finish up your drink so we can go. I have some ideas for what you can do with your lips that’ll get the blood flowing in them again.”

Suddenly Chanyeol feels very, very warm.

“That’s so cheesy,” he mumbles, but his dick doesn’t seem to mind as Junmyeon’s eyes turn dark, promising. “But I mean. Yeah. Definitely.”

It’s Junmyeon’s fault, really, but Chanyeol starts gulping down his lemonade, seemingly forgetful of wanting this moment to be romantic.

Chanyeol sniffles and wipes his mouth, pointing at Junmyeon’s full cup. “Why aren’t you drinking?”

“I’m taking my time, enjoying it.” It’s just to tease, but Chanyeol seems to miss that completely as he stares at Junmyeon’s cup, as if he can will it up, into Junmyeon’s mouth. Junmyeon makes himself stay still, watching Chanyeol’s eyes and wondering what kind of internal war is going on behind them. Finally, Chanyeol grabs Junmyeon’s cup out of his hand, tilting his face back and draining it in a few swift gulps. Lots of it ends up on his scarf and coat, and it makes Junmyeon feel much less like taking off the kid’s pants and more like wrapping him in ten blankets.

Junmyeon takes off his other glove, cupping Chanyeol’s sticky face in his hands. Chanyeol looks at him questioningly, a hand coming up to wrap around Junmyeon’s wrist. He looks so soft and sweet, even with a runny nose.

And Junmyeon can’t help it. As much as he thinks he likes teasing and pulling at Chanyeol’s emotions—making him flustered and clumsy—Chanyeol has the same exact grip on him. In any given hour, Junmyeon oscillates between terribly turned on, terribly endeared, and terribly, terribly—

Junmyeon gulps. 

“What?” Chanyeol lowly asks. “Are you okay?”

“I…” A deep breath. “I am.” Junmyeon leans forward, their noses brushing. He watches as Chanyeol’s eyes flutter shut in anticipation of a kiss. His body feels weightless, either from the winter air or the way he’s already launched himself into saying, “I love you, Chanyeol.”

Chanyeol’s eyes shoot open and he jerks out of Junmyeon’s hold. There’s a millisecond of Junmyeon plummeting, but then Chanyeol realizes what he’s just done and grabs Junmyeon’s hands, smacking them back on his face. His voice cracks. “You _love_ me?”

Junmyeon still feels fear, an impulse to backtrack, but then Chanyeol breaks into a grin that is so, so wide and so, so bright. “I—I do.”

Chanyeol shakes his head in wonder, his eyes wide and mouth gaping open. “Say it again.”

“What?”

“Say it again, _please_.”

“I love you?” Junmyeon makes a _mmph_ noise as Chanyeol kisses him.

“That sounded too much like a question.”

Junmyeon’s cheeks blaze with embarrassment. “I love you.”

Chanyeol kisses him again, so sloppy and uncoordinated but so full of warmth. “Say it louder.”

“No.”

“ _Junmyeon_.”

“I love you!” Junmyeon is fully unprepared as Chanyeol lurches forward and wraps his arms around him. The kid probably meant to pin him to the bench, but the two of them end up tumbling into the snow on the ground, Junmyeon pressed beneath Chanyeol’s weight. Before Junmyeon can orient himself, Chanyeol is aggressively nuzzling against him, his grip so tight that Junmyeon can hardly breathe. 

“You love me,” Chanyeol says against Junmyeon’s scarf, and it sound so shaky and relieved that Junmyeon’s heart hurts. 

“I do.” The snow is freezing and wet as it seeps into his jeans, but he doesn’t care. He blinks up at the murky city sky, the dark red-brown color of water paints mixed together.

Chanyeol lifts his face to look at Junmyeon. “I love you, too. You know that, right? It was probably obvious, but I love you. I love you. Do you know that I love you?”

Junmyeon breathlessly laughs, the relief in Chanyeol’s voice is also evident in his when he says, “I do, now.”

Chanyeol’s attempt at an passionate kiss fails miserably, mostly because neither of them can stop smiling and their tongues and mouths are beginning to lose all proper function.

“This is ridiculous,” Chanyeol says, fidgeting against Junmyeon. “We need to go back to your place, now. I want you to _show_ me how much you love me.”

“Does drawing you a hot bath and making you drink five cups of steaming tea count? I think your shivering has gotten worse.”

“It’s not because I’m cold—well, okay, I’m cold,” Chanyeol says, “ _but_ I’m just so fucking happy. I can’t—it’s not—my stomach—” Chanyeol pauses, purses his lips. “I think I’m going to puke.”

Junmyeon rolls the two of them over, scrambling to get out from beneath him. “Not on me!”

“But you _love_ me! You shouldn’t care!”

“I don’t love to be puked on!”

“But it’s _my_ puke! Me! Who you _love_!”

Chanyeol is probably joking around. Most likely. Maybe. But that doesn’t stop Junmyeon from standing, torn between burying himself in Chanyeol’s arms again or keeping a proper distance. His _Akaito_ takes a couple deep breaths, then when he’s ready, Junmyeon helps him get to his feet.

“Can we go home now?” Chanyeol quietly asks, struggling to put his backpack on.

Their hands link, Junmyeon squeezing Chanyeol’s, feeling him squeeze back. Junmyeon wants every night to be like this. It doesn’t matter where they go, what they do, or who they’re with, as long as he gets to take Chanyeol home at the end of it.

“Yeah, Chanyeol. Let’s go.”

Chanyeol nudges him. “Hey,” he whispers, “you love me.”

One more kiss, one more smile. “I do.”

 

☓

 

The moment they reach the beach, Chanyeol drops everything and sprints toward the shore. His flip-flops are kicked off his feet, legs a haphazard mess of movement as he grabs the hem of his shirt and pulls it above his head. The city kid’s skin is so white that it looks reflective beneath the hot sun.

“Hey!” Junmyeon cries, scrambling to drop his bags and search out the one with suntan lotion. “You’re going to get burnt!”

Chanyeol either isn’t listening to him, or can’t hear him over the sound of the ocean waves and wind. Junmyeon watches as Chanyeol kicks through the shallow water, then dives straight in once it reaches past his knees. Well, it looks more like a belly-flop than a dive, and when Chanyeol emerges, he looks like a drowned dog. 

Junmyeon laughs, deciding that bringing their bags into the cabin can wait a little longer. He finds the suntan lotion then goes to join Chanyeol. 

“Fucking salty!” Chanyeol coughs, sloshing back to the shore, “And _cold_. I think—I think my dick fell off?”

“Well that’s unfortunate,” Junmyeon says, grabbing Chanyeol’s wrist and turning him so he can start to apply the lotion. He feels so strong, so smooth beneath Junmyeon’s hands; the pretty planes of his shoulders, back, waist. Chanyeol patiently allows him, dripping wet but staring off into the ocean’s horizon like he’s been bewitched. “The ocean is a pretty big place, the current has probably already carried it further out.”  
“A burial at sea.”

“What?”

“Like a viking. Vikings had burials at sea. My dick is like a viking.”

Junmyeon thinks that the stress from Chanyeol’s first time being in a plane added together with his excitement to see the ocean has messed with his brain a little bit. The poor kid had been so scared when the plane had taken off, and hasn’t been quite right since. Junmyeon wrongly assumed he’d be used to heights. 

“Turn,” Junmyeon instructs, then starts applying lotion to Chanyeol’s chest. He can feel the muscles move beneath his hand as Chanyeol takes a breath so long a deep, the tendons in his neck stick out.

“You lied, by the way. The fish section of the supermarket smells nothing like this.”

Junmyeon chuckles. “I didn’t _lie_ , it’s just a hard smell to describe.”

Chanyeol looks down, plucking at Junmyeon’s shirt. “Why are you still wearing this?”

“We’ve been here less than five minutes and you’re already trying to get me out of my clothes.”

Chanyeol deviously grins. “I’ve got big plans for this weekend.”

“Do I even want to—”

“I want you to do me on the beach.”

Junmyeon’s hand stops on Chanyeol’s stomach. “Chanyeol, no.”

“Why not?”

“Think about it. Think about all this sand. In cervices.”

“…Oh.”

“Yeah. That’s what I thought.” Just as Junmyeon gets back to work, Chanyeol leans down, hooking his arm behind Junmyeon’s knees to pick him up bridal-style. The surprised, high-pitched squeal Junmyeon makes is beautifully embarrassing, and he begins to squirm as Chanyeol sloshes back into the water.

“Chanyeol, what—I’m wearing _Armani_ underwear, don’t you dare—” But then Chanyeol is dunking the two of them into the waves, the current swirling around them. Any further retribution that Junmyeon makes will be worth it.

 

☓


End file.
